


Thoughts and Prompts

by Chatnoir89



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fill, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2533643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chatnoir89/pseuds/Chatnoir89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ongoing collection of one-shots and prompt fills </p><p>1. D'Artagnan, sleep deprivation as torture<br/>2. Aramis walks into a bank… (Modern Au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where is my mind?

**Author's Note:**

> So this will be updated randomly :) It's just kinda a way of keeping me writing while I'm trying to finish off a much larger Musketeers story that I should be uploading soon :) Prompts are welcome if you wish, this is just kinda a weird random place for all the odd story ideas that are not quite big enough for fully fledged narratives & some prompts that I got inspired by :) Hope you enjoy! 
> 
>  
> 
> Prompt :
> 
> "d'Artagnon is captured and held for whatever reason by whoever. They keep him awake and standing to wear him down; up to author on how they manage this. 
> 
> By the time the others come rescue him he's been awake for at least a couple of days and is not at his most coherent, but he can't let himself relax, he keeps thinking he has to stay awake. The boys have to help him realize that everything's fine."
> 
> Warnings : Not explicit mentions of torture.  
> (also unbeta'd …. sorry about my mistakes! - if anyone is interesting in looking over my stories before I post them and embarrass myself with my terrible spelling and grammar, I would be most appreciative :) )

Drip.

_Drip._

Each small drop of ice water dug into his skull as if it were a musket ball, plunging deep through skin and bone, imbedding itself within the flesh. And though somewhere in his mind he knew it just water, he had been awake so long it was hard to decipher between what was real and what was not. His skull _throbbed_ and _buzzed_ with a never-ending _fuzzy_ sound that seemed to dull all rational thought. Each moment felt like a thousand, blurring together indistinctly, so there was no way to know whether minutes or hours passed.

It was so dark in the cellar – bar a single lit torch – yet he could not sleep. His body craved the succulent abyss unconsciousness offered; yet it still would not claim him. Each time he tried, another drop would splash him awake. Though the water itself was not truly the reason for his anxiety, but rather the anticipation of the water. In the dark he could not tell when it would fall or how much of the ice water would splash upon his head, all he knew was it would. 

_Drip._

It was as if someone held a pistol to his head, firing ball after ball, never in a predictable fashion, just close enough to keep the Gascon on constant guard, remaining vigilant though he knew not why nor what required his alertness.

Drip.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins like a wicked poison, pulsing his mind into overdrive and his body into a state of hyperawareness.

 _Drip._  

Their assignment had not seemed to be the most exciting when Tréville had sent them from the city. It had been described as a simply escort duty to accompany a foreign noble to the palace, a young cousin of the Queen’s who wished to visit her adoring elder relative. The Condesa de Cervera was a young beauty, with a clear familial likeness to that of Anne of Austria. However, unknown to her French escorts, the Condesa’s husband, the Conde de Cervera, had recently enraged a group of Protestant rebels, exiling them from his lands and stripping them of their homes and small fortunes. 

As they accompanying the young Condesa of Cervera to the French border, the troop of fifteen musketeers had begun to realise a trap had been laid in place for their charge. Hence they had split off, creating a decoy convoy to follow their original route. Athos had led this party of nine, as one of the more senior soldiers among them. Though it was not long before they realised how well their plan had worked.

The rebels had attacked their camp in the dead of night, managing to kill three men before they subdued the remaining musketeers at the sharp point of a rapier and the muzzle of a pistol. Once bound in tight ropes, they had been dragged back to the rebel’s base of operations; a sieged manor house of grandiose appearance. There were still two men unaccounted for, which left a small glimmer of hope for the imprisoned musketeers.

Though d’Artagnan had not had a chance to appreciate this victory over their captors as they had quickly singled him out from the others. The rebel’s leader, Fierro Suárez – as he later introduced himself – was a course and proud Spaniard and a devout protestant. He wished to hold the Condesa hostage to gain financial aid for their cause and to force her husband into restoring their claim to their homelands.

“You may go free if you speak what I wish to hear,” Suárez had told them in a gentlemanly manner. To this the four musketeers had remain utterly stoic, refusing to abide by the rebel’s wishes. 

“We cannot speak what we do not know,” Athos had finally, taking an authoritative tone with the men before them. 

“How old is the boy?” The leader’s second in command had stepped forward, examining d’Artagnan with a careful and curious eye, his accent was thick and jolted.

While they had at first believed Suárez to be the more ruthless of the rebels, it was Carlos, the leader’s second in command, that was all the more monstrous. A curious medic at heart, Carlos had taken a more practical approach to his exploration of the inner workings of the mind and spirit.

D’Artagnan had given no verbal response to this question, simply tightened his glare to make him seem older and more imposing.

“I am curious to explore Marsiliis’ theories…” Carlos told his superior absently as he studied the Gascon with a scholarly eye. “¿Puedo tener el niño?” Carlos had then turned back towards his leader, reverting back to his native language. 

D’Artagnan would have sworn that he had felt the tension between the musketeers beside him. Even then the Gascon had known that while he knew not of what the man spoke, the blanched look upon the Aramis’ features said more than he wished to know.

“Do as you will,” Suárez had waved off casually; speaking in French to make it clear he wanted the musketeers to understand his meaning. “Though if your methods prove effective, you may have them all.”

From there the four had not had a moment to process the Spaniard’s orders, with one man placing a knife to d’Artagnan’s throat before separating the Gascon mercilessly from his fellow musketeer brothers. The cold stony expressions of worry and panic held in Athos’ eyes had been the last things he saw, hearing Aramis’ and Porthos’ loud protests as he was dragged from their sight. 

After a day in complete isolation, he had been pulled into a small room in the depths of the estate’s basements. Here his hands had been tightly secured to high hanging manacles, forcing him to stand in order to relieve the pressure from his wrists. The rains had been heavy in region and as such a steady stream of water dripped continuous from above; each ice-cold drop landing heavy upon the top of his head like the sharp bite of a blade.

Any thought of sleep was soon lost. And though there were moments where his body attempted to claim the serenity of unconsciousness, Carlos and his assistances were always close on hand to shove him roughly from his slumber; pricking him with a sharp pin, delivering deft blows to his ribs, never once allowing him rest. Even when the Spaniard rebels abandoned their posts for thoughts of food and bed, the constant splash of frigid water upon his head gave no allowance for peace.

The second day in the cellar he had been so frustrated in his boredom he rebelled against his captors at every opportunity, shouting and berating them each time they attempted to interrogate him. His arms had grown weary, beginning to lose all feeling as his blood left his fingers, his wrists aching from the heavy iron shackles biting into the skin. 

The third day his irritation had grown and though the air in the cellar held frost and the icy water dripped relentlessly upon him, his skin felt hot, sticky, humming with alertness and anger. His body shivered against the cold, though he could not escape the closeness and claustrophobic nature of the room. It was hot and cold all at once, delivering a wave of confusing mixed messages to his brain. 

By the fourth day he felt his mind slipping. Images began to blur through hot dry eyes. Voices seemed to barely touch his reverie, drifting past like fading memories from a dream. Time slipped effortlessly like sand in a hourglass, each passing without thought or acknowledgment.

After that he stopped counting the days.

Every so often Suárez would enter the room himself, strolling up to the shackled Gascon with a confidence unmatched by any of the other Spaniards. Though the rebel’s mood would change with each visit, his questions remained the same.

“Where is the Condesa?” Suárez would stare unblinkingly at d’Artagnan, as he demanded his answers. “Tell us and we will allow you your freedom.”

Sometimes d’Artagnan would say nothing to this, other times he would laugh or spit at the vile man, but never would he give the Spaniard any sort of satisfaction over him. But as the days drew longer, it became harder and hard to decipher one from another. 

It did not take long before his mind began to play tricks upon him; shadows turned into figures, faces appeared in the darkness and voices began to trickle into his ear, sometimes in comfort but more often taunting him. 

However it was not too long that the comforting voices became recognisable, the shadows forming familiar faces. Not long after that, the shadows became to speak. 

 _‘Stay with me, d’Artagnan’_ Athos told him, standing behind Suárez, _‘hold on’._

“’Thos…” he tried to call out to the elder musketeer, though he was unsure whether the man was there or not. If Athos were truly free, why did he just stand there unmoving? 

“Where is the Condesa’s convoy?” A rough hand gripped his chin, fingers digging mercilessly into his skin, securing his head tightly.

 _Who?_ D’Artagnan’s mind wondered, was that why he was here? Did he even know a Condesa? He knew several Comtesses…

“Speak what you know?” a furious growl demanded of him, squeezing the strong grip until d’Artagnan registered the pain with a gasp.

 _‘Tell them nothing,’_ this voice belonged to Aramis, somehow the sharp-shooting musketeer was in the room the same as Athos.

 _I won’t,_ he promise desperately the fading image of Aramis, each time he blinked, the musketeer seem to disappear further.

 _‘Hold on a little longer,’_ it was clear this was Porthos, his voice floating from somewhere in the darkness before fading back into silence. 

“Come back,” he tried to plea at his brothers, but they were sinking back into the dark shadowed corners of the room, melting into the inky darkness. 

“Where is she?” Someone demanded, slapping him awake before he had even realised he had closed his eyes. Had it been minutes? Hours? The questions were always the same and he had no idea how many times he had heard them shouted at him, no way of knowing if he were dreaming or awake. 

“I don’t know,” d’Artagnan whispered in a distracted tone, unable to focus upon his interrogator as Athos had returned behind Suárez. The elder musketeer standing stoic, watching d’Artagnan with an undistinguishable stare, though he did not say anything.

D’Artagnan’s heart beat faster as he realised he had let slip the truth. Athos’ stare turned cold, clearly displaying the disappointment the elder felt.

“I just need a little longer, Suárez,” someone slapped his cheek lightly, but it made no difference, d’Artagnan continued to stare at the wall just beyond his interrogators. He could not tell whether his captors were speaking French or Spanish, though somehow he seemed to understand the words. 

“We have not the time to waste,” Suárez snarled at the man to his left.

“He will talk, won’t you?” Carlos spat at his captive, shoving the Gascon roughly. In his shackled and exhausted state, d’Artagnan could do nothing to avoid the blow, _“Won’t you?”_

“No,” d’Artagnan croaked, his eyes catching fading Athos’ gaze once more, revealing a look of pride upon the elder’s face. Athos would never break and nor would he. 

Suárez and Carlos seemed to be arguing about something or another, though their words were undistinguishable. D’Artagnan could see their mouths moving though the sound seemed distorted, slurred beyond recognition. All he could hear was the slight ringing of his ears, the dull thump of his heartbeat upon his chest and the drip of the ice-cold water that continued to drop upon his head. And while the Spaniards kept berating one another, d’Artagnan chose to ignore them, looking past them to the slightly faded image of Athos behind them. The man seemed enveloped in shadow, making d’Artagnan wish that there were more lighting in the darkened cellar so that he may see the other musketeer better.

A small glint of a pistol was all the warning the musketeer had as Carlos turned his weapon to the wall where Athos stood. The gunshot thundered throughout the room in a violent blast, kicking a fresh wave of adrenaline through his body, his mind snapping to an overly heightened sense of awareness.

D’Artagnan’s head shot upright at the noise, like a stag in a forest, trying desperately to work out where the shot had landed. Though he felt no pain, it was not a clear indication as to whether he had been hit or not. At his presence state he could no longer feel the shackles around his wrists, nor the ache that he had once. 

However it was then that he noticed how empty the room felt; only two others before him when there had been three.

Athos was gone. Had Athos been shot? Was that the reason for the musketeer’s absence? From the angle his head was being held, he could not see the floor, nor could he tell if there was a musketeer bleeding out upon it. Suárez and his second in command had payed no attention to any other in the room, though d’Artagnan swore Athos had stood before him. And now he did not. There was no other explanation for the absence.

Athos had been shot.

Athos was dead. 

“Where is the Condesa?” Carlos demanded of him, grabbing his chin once more, but d’Artagnan refused to listen to the men who had killed his mentor.

 _“Athos…”_ d’Artagnan’s eyes widened at the realisation, his breath hitching with confusion and anxiety. They had killed him. Athos was dead. How would he tell Porthos and Aramis?

“Useless,” Suárez spat, gripping d’Artagnan’s hair to pull the Gascon’s head back, “throw him with the others,” the rebel leader growled to his companion, before muttering some indistinguishable slur in Spanish at his comrade.

A wave of numbness flooded d’Artagnan’s senses as he felt hands upon his person, wrenching him down from the shackles that bound him to the ceiling. He could no longer feel his hands nor his arms, his shoulders held a dull ache but nothing more. Though at that moment he didn’t care what happened to him. They had killed Athos. 

His eyes searched the room desperately for the elder musketeer but there was no body to be found. How had they removed the body so quickly?

A small part of his mind began to see the inconsistencies in his thought process, stumbling clumsily through a labyrinth of reality and fantasy. Was Athos truly dead or had his mind fooled him once more?

Sudden motion around him paused his inner contemplation as he felt himself being dragged along by firm hands. A rush of confused thoughts bombarded his mind as he struggled to comprehend the situation. Movements felt as though he were being pulled through a rushing current, each step was like being forcefully pushed in the opposite direction, being wrenched through a pit of thick mud. 

They stopped for a moment as a heavy creaking sound could be heard, though d’Artagnan was far more interesting the patterns the wood grains were forming as he looked at them. Without warning, the hands upon his shoulder’s pushing him roughly into the room, forcefully slamming him against the cold stone.

“D’Artagnan?” He heard a familiar voice in the patchy darkness, but it was hard to focus on where he’d heard that voice before or to even contemplate where he had been thrown. It was something hard, cold, slightly wet. Something that he could not remember at that moment, but it was in his mind somewhere, on the tip of his tongue… 

 _“Floor,”_ he said finally in a hysterical giggle, as he came upon the word, how had he forgotten the word _‘floor’?_ How had he gotten on the floor? 

“Did they hit your head?” There was another familiar voice, closer this time, too close. How had it gotten that close? 

His legs felt nice, and his arms too, though he couldn’t quiet feel them there was not that odd pulling sensation that he had felt before. They were prickly, trickling with a surreal floating feeling that felt oddly detached and far away.

“He seems feverish …”, the voice said once more, hands caressed his forehead soothingly, “his wrists seemed badly bruised but nothing that would warrant this.”

The voice was so familiar. It reminded him of something, _someone._

“’Mis…” d’Artagnan wondered allowed, but soon found his eyes could not focus enough to make out any recognisable features.

“Did they drug him?” there was another voice somewhere in the darkened room, looming just out the corner of d’Artagnan’s eye. This was strange, usually the voices only talked to him, never to each other. 

“D’Artagnan, what did they do?” It was Aramis’ voice once again, soft and gentle, lulling him into a blissful state. After being alert for so long the comfort of peace seemed so utterly divine he sought it out desperately.

“Mhm sl’epnow,” d’Artagnan whispered, sinking into the welcoming darkness that reached out for him, almost humming at the warmth from Aramis’ hand as it raked through his wet hair. 

“Alright,” Aramis told him softly, allowing the musketeer to slip into calmer state by the familiar comfort of the elder’s voice. Hands moving slowly from his head down to one side. Fingers ran across his chest, pressing into his injured ribs, sparking a fresh wave across his side like a burning flame, igniting a deep and torturous pain within him.

D’Artagnan immediately froze, adrenaline coursing feverishly at the threat, opening his eyes as he realised his fatal mistake – he had nearly fallen asleep, he couldn’t sleep. He should have known better than to believe the voices that plagued his reverie. His mind was playing tricks on him again. Aramis was not there, it was simply his addled thoughts creating illusions in the shadows once more.

Something was touching him, something was crawling over his skin, ripping – tearing – piece by piece. Dragging nails across his forearms pulling him down, trying to shackle him once more. 

He was not free. Sleep meant pain. He could not sleep. He needed to stay awake. 

 _“Get off me!”_ d’Artagnan tried to tear his hands from his captors violently in a panicked state, pushing himself far away from prying hands, though his arms felt utterly detached from his body – _distant_ – as if they did not belong to him. He could see them but he could not control them.

“D’Artagnan…” A new voice said, deep in the shadows of the room, it almost sounded like _Athos_. But d’Artagnan knew better than to fall for that trick twice. The shadows had begun to mimic the musketeer’s voice one more, taunting him. “Can you reach him?” Athos – the shadow – asked. 

“Not anymore I can’t,” the first voice uttered, still using Aramis’ voice, followed by an odd clinking noise. “His ribs are injured, though I can tell if they’re bruised or broken."

D’Artagnan tried to move further away from the dark shadows that tried to grab at him but he could not seem to will his body further. His legs seemed to pay no attention to his demands nor did his aching arms. 

“Why don’t they listen…?” d’Artagnan breathed out slowly as he starred unblinkingly at his arms. On some level he could feel that his arms were still attached, but he had no idea how to tell them to move.

“Why don’t who listened?” Someone said before him, it was different, not the same as the shadows beside him, _familiar._

Recognition hit him with a crashing wave, almost causing him to choke upon the breath of relief that ensued.

“Porthos?” d’Artagnan stared across the room at the musketeer with a wide smile, hot tears scolding his tired eyes.

“You back with us?” Porthos ask him. The flaming torch above the musketeer flickered the man’s image slightly, leaving him in partial shadow, though d’Artagnan could still see Porthos’ features clearly.

 _“P’thos,”_ he repeated, trying not to blink in fear that the man would disappear. However the lack of moisture upon his eyes appeared to be a fresh kind of torture that he was unprepared to deal with.

“You alright?” It was Porthos’ voice again, though d’Artagnan could see the man’s mouth move as the words appeared, making the Gascon feel himself unconsciously anchoring to the older man’s voice. The constant stream of bodiless voices that had been whispering to him over the past week had made him desperate for a sliver of reality.

“D’n’t dis’pear,” he told Porthos desperately, wishing he could use his limbs to crawl his way over and demand the man to stay and not fade as he had done countless times before.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Porthos promised him with serious tone, though d’Artagnan knew that was a promise the elder musketeer had no control over.

“That’s what you said last time…” d’Artagnan whispered hollowly in a low slur, praying his eyes would stay open. They felt so heavily, each time he tried to blink it was almost torturous to open them again, but he knew he had to. He couldn’t fall asleep.

“How long have you been awake?” the voice to his left asked but d’Artagnan tried to block it out.

“Shadows shouldn’t talk,” he berated the darkened image in his periphery. A small voice at the back of his mind told him he shouldn’t talk to the shadows – nothing good happened in the shadows, and this was the shadow that had hurt him, it would not think twice to do so again.

“Well that about answers it,” Porthos shook his head, looking distressed about… _something._

His eyes tried to close but d’Artagnan fought them with every last inch of strength he had left. He could not surrender now, not when he had finally found Porthos.

 _Can’t sleep,_ d’Artagnan told himself, _stay awake._

“Why can’t you sleep?”

 _The shadows were in his head,_ d’Artagnan felt his hands tremble slightly at the realisation that even his own thoughts were not longer safe. 

“You are talking aloud, d’Artagnan, we’re not in your head…” the voice to his right told him. It sounded so much like Athos, but it just confused d’Artagnan all the more. Why was Athos a shadow? Was that what had happened when Athos was shot?

“I’m not telling you anything,” he growled at the shadows, this was just some other trick. He had to stay awake, he couldn’t tell them anything, he had to stay vigilant.

“I think he has been awake this whole time…” a voice to his left uttered, _“Marsiliis.”_

“What does that mean?” Porthos spoke once more, though oddly enough he seemed to be looking directly at the shadows, addressing them as naturally as though they were old friends. 

“Marsiliis was an Italian with a wicked interest in the human mind,” the shadow on his left uttered, it sounded odd, as if it were getting further away. Sounds were starting to drift in and out once more, bleeding into the fraction of reality he clung to. It was getting hard to tell where his thoughts ended and the living world begun. “Said to torture men by forcing them to remain awake.”

“As tortures go, I think I’d chose that one…” Porthos sniffed, once more addressing the shadow to the left of d’Artagnan.

“In most cases the victims went mad after a few weeks…” the shadow replied ominously. 

 _Was that it?_ D’Artagnan thought, _had he gone mad?_ His mind was a thundering storm of irrational thoughts, each more confusing that the last. Every second he remained awake became a torturous task. He knew he had to stay awake, but it was getting harder to figure out why? It was frustrating and agonisingly maddening.

Porthos was here. Porthos was not a shadow. That is why he could not sleep. Porthos would disappear if he closed his eyes. He wouldn’t let that happen.

“Go to sleep, d’Artagnan, we will keep watch,” the shadow to his right promised, though d’Artagnan knew better than to trust a shadow. Sleeping was what the shadows wanted; the shadows had taken Aramis and killed Athos. 

“I’m so tired,” he choked at Porthos. His mind was bombarding him with a thousand thoughts, all racing at once. Why were the shadows speaking as Athos and Aramis? Where had his interrogators gone? Was this simply a new method for making him reveal the Condesa’s whereabouts?

“Then sleep, we will manage this,” the voice on his left told him softly, a jangle of iron against stone struck his mind, the sound seemed so close yet so distant at the same moment.

“I’m’s’tired,” he could not hold back the anguish in his voice, wishing desperately that Porthos were truly before him, that the mimicked voices were real and that his mind could relax and be claimed by the luxurious bliss of sleep.

“D’Artagnan close your eyes and sleep,” the shadowy figure on his right urged him gently, mimicking Athos’ soft tones to almost perfection.

 _“Can’t,”_ he grit his teeth at the shadow. He would not be swayed so easily. Porthos needed him. Porthos would be taken by the darkness if he closed his eyes.

“You need to sleep, lad, close your eyes,” Porthos told him, encouraging him to give into the demands of his mind.

“Can’t,” d’Artagnan looked up at Porthos in confusion, “the shadows will take you away.”

“What? No they won’t,” Porthos seemed to chuckle a little at this, causing d’Artagnan to become agitated at the man.

“They took Athos,” d’Artagnan warned the man before him, trying desperately to make him understand the danger he was in. 

“I am right here, d’Artagnan,” the voice to his right said. Porthos looked odd, why was he frowning? Was he worried? Where the shadows coming to take him?

“Shadows killed Athos,” d’Artagnan uttered, trying to blink away the water that obstructed his vision. He couldn’t risk closing his eyes. Shadows lived in the darkness.

 _“D’Artagnan,”_ the shadow on his right growled.

“He’s delirious,” the voice on his left told him, but d’Artagnan was not going to listen to the shadows anymore, their cruel whispering had caused him enough grief.

“They shot him,” d’Artagnan slurred a little, trying his keep his head from dropping down upon his chest. No, did they? Had they? Or had that been the shadow’s trick?

“He just needs sleep,” the second voice beside him said, “his mind his fighting him, exhausting him, once he rests he should be fine.”

“They shot me in the head…” d’Artagnan told Porthos, finding it harder to keep his head up as it felt as though it were filled with lead. 

“No they didn’t,” the voice on his right told him sternly.

“I think I died…” he whispered to Porthos, his eyes wide, trying desperately not to blink. 

 _“You’re not dead, d’Artagnan,”_ the voice growled beside him, it sounded angry. Could a shadow be angry? Would it take Porthos if it were angry?

“Leave him be, he needs to sleep,” the second shadow said, sounding slightly authoritative, did shadows have rank? 

“Can’t,” d’Artagnan told the shadow on his left, though he kept his eyes on Porthos, if he kept looking at the musketeer, then the man couldn’t disappear.

“Yes, you can,” the shadow to his left urged him gently.

“ ’Thos died, Aram’is’gone, P’thos kes’dis’pearin’,” he told the shadows in a monotonic slur, though he could not look at them. Porthos would disappear if he looked away.

“It’ll be all be fine, you just need sleep,” Porthos told him, “Come over here.”

“No,” d’Artagnan stopped himself completely as he came to the realisation – this was just another illusion. He should have seen it before. Porthos was not there, Porthos had never been there.

“D’Artagnan…” Porthos frowned at him.

“I don’t know…” d’Artagnan spoke softly, unable to articulate the chaos inside his head. 

“You don’t know what?” 

“Can’t…” d’Artagnan muttered, trying to concentrate on why it had gotten so dark all of a sudden. 

 _Shadows._ Sleep was bad. The shadows brought pain. 

“Can’t,” he growled, trying to snap himself awake though even the simplest of actions felt as though he were still tightly bound, standing back in the basement.

It took a herculean effort to force his eyes to open once more, he needed to fight this. He could not give in to his interrogators.

“No, close your eyes,” the shadowy figure to his right ordered him with a gentle tone, though d’Artagnan did his best to tune of the demands of the shadows.

“Can’t.” He snarled, determined not to show any sign of weakness towards his manipulating captors; be they shadows or Spanish rebels, he would not bow to them. 

 _“Christ, lad,”_ Porthos sighed as he furrowed his brows at the younger musketeer.

 

†††

  

He had seen d’Artagnan in a variety of states of the past year in the Gascon’s company; drunk, concussed, startled from a deep sleep, heavily dosed with pain medicine, the list seemed endless. However nothing compared to erratic faraway expression of withdrawn fear that d’Artagnan was showing at this moment. The young musketeer seemed distant yet alert all at once, his exhaustion had gone beyond the point of rational thought, leaving the young Gascon in a permanent paranoid delusional state. 

Athos had been utterly petrified by the Gascon’s angry cries echoing the halls in the first few days of their captivity, though the eerie silence that followed had been far worse. For days they had known nothing of the young musketeer’s condition, half believing he had been killed. Their captors had clearly been avid fans of the divide and conquer approach to gaining information, focusing their attentions upon d’Artagnan as the youngest and henceforth the weakest in their opinion – which only proved their blindness. For d’Artagnan had something not many musketeers could boast – a wicked stubborn streak that had no doubt proved completely frustrating to those who thought the young musketeer would break easily. 

Carlos’ attentions upon the Gascon had been utterly unnerving as there was no way of deciphering what the medic’s true interests were in the boy. However, as Aramis explained the theories of the Italian lawyer, Athos’ fears subsided slightly. For while the methods seemed cruel, from what Athos had gathered upon the matter, it was not life threatening. And while it was worrying at the moment, Athos knew it a temporary issue. All they needed to do was to get the musketeer to sleep – which was proving a little difficult at that point in time. 

 _“Can’t,”_ d’Artagnan breathed out in a hoarse whispered. Even in the dim glow of the ill-lit room, Athos could see that the young Gascon’s heart was racing erratically, matching the sharp gulping breaths. D’Artagnan’s head lolled slightly back and forth, in a continuously motion, as though his body were trying to sleep but the musketeer’s mind would not allow it.

“Yes you can, close them.” Athos urged, becoming slightly frustrated with the stubborn young Gascon. D’Artagnan had seemingly gone into a verbal loop of the word _‘can’t’_ , repeating it over and over as he fought himself to remain awake.

“Athos,” Aramis sighed, tugging at his iron bounds once more, “more than likely he’s been awake for over a week. To go so long without sleep, with the right stimulations, it’s said it can drive a man insane.”

“P’thos ds’pear,” d’Artagnan began another slurred incoherent rant, starring unblinkingly at Porthos as his eyes watered, “shhd’ws.” 

“But it’s temporary…” Athos turned back, watching Aramis carefully. Aramis had not said anything of this nature before. The other musketeer had told him the symptoms were easily reversed, but Aramis’ renewed worries had Athos slightly apprehensive.

“Once he sleeps,” Aramis nodded, though Athos could only just make it out in the darkened room. “Right now he’s just exhausting himself, he’s already got a fever, if he get’s sick he would most likely be too weak to survive it.”

“Can’t," d'Artagnan mumbled once more, shaking his head to violently jerk himself awake. 

“We need to get him out of here,” Porthos uttered, watching the sleep deprived Gascon cautiously.

“I’m open to suggestions,” Athos muttered darkly, gesturing to the thick iron shackles that bound each of them securely against the wall.

“Ones that don’t push your shoulder,” Porthos considered, peering towards Aramis with a concerned expression. The past week had not been kind on any of them. While Suárez may not have been a violent man, but his followers held not such values. The Spanish rebels had frequently interrogated them with little mercy shown, seemingly excited to direct their frustrations upon loyal French Catholics. 

“Or your head,” Aramis chimed back sharply, nodding at trickle of glistening blood that painted the left side of Porthos' face, with dark bruises mottling his temple and cheek. Though Athos had watched the two joke and banter over the week, he could see that both were desperate to hide their wounds from the other. 

“D’Artagnan’s not chained,” Porthos shrugged, nodding to Gascon in the centre of the room.

“D’Artagnan is nine days without sleep and is refusing to talk to us,” Athos countered tersely.

“Can’t,” d’Artagnan muttered in a low slur as if on cue.

“My point exactly,” Athos nodded to the young Gascon, “if he were more coherent we’d be in luck, but in this state I’m worried any conversation might not be understood.” 

“Mm’not’na tell you n’thng,” d’Artagnan growled in a slurred, almost incoherent mumble, his eyelids sagging slightly as the young musketeer fought to stay awake.

“That’s because you don’t know anything,” Aramis chuckled slightly as he leaned back against the wall, clearly giving up all efforts to reach the Gascon.

As their squadron had been deployed as a decoy escort, it had been decided that they should know nothing of the Condesa’s true whereabouts on the off chance they were interrogated. As it turned out this had been an apt decision as the captured musketeers had no information to give their captors, even if they wished to.

Athos paused in for a moment as he heard a distant cry of alarm, his heart picking up to a racing pace – either there was an attack upon the estate or a rescue. Either outcome in this case seemed rather positive, considering their predicament.

“Do you hear that?” Aramis looked up over at the door with a hopeful expression. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Porthos looked up towards the heavy wooden door with a hopeful expression.“Sounds like Michel and Bastian found the others,” he chuckled as another cry rang out above them, followed by several blasts of gunpowder from muskets and pistols.

“Took them long enough,” Athos muttered absently, though was thoroughly appreciative of their timely arrival. He had feared the consequences had they not been able to see to d'Artagnan or if the young musketeer had been given back into the hands of Carlos.

“Athos?” A familiar voice of their musketeer comrades called down the darkened corridor. “Aramis, Porthos?”

“Down here,” Athos called back with a smile, tipping his head back against the wall, thankful that the nightmare was over. The sound of boots rushing toward them in the corridor outside was akin to the most heavenly of choirs. 

“You lot alright?” Michel asked as he pushed the door open, holding a brightly flaming torch to light his way.

“Bumps and bruises, nothing more,” Porthos sniffed casually, though the visible bloodied wound upon his head completely undermined his statement.

“Most of us,” Athos drawled slowly, keeping his eyes upon d’Artagnan, who was trembling slightly in the centre of the room.

“Have you secured the estate?” Porthos wondered cautiously. 

“León and the others came along for the ride, they have Suárez in the courtyard, although all others resisted, Suárez is sole survivor.”

“Good riddance,” Porthos snarled, and Athos found himself agreeing with the man whole-heartedly. While Suárez had preached a peaceful message, his followers had simply been on board for the promised of Catholic bloodshed. And his second in command, Carlos, seemed to be only present for the prospect of potential test subjects. None of these deserved to live another day.

“And how does the Condesa fair?” Aramis ventured with an apprehensive frown.

“Safe and sound in the company of the Queen,” Bastian told them with a smile, “whom, by the way, wished to send the entire garrison to your aid after hearing of the capture of you four.” 

“Talk about favourites,” Michel snorted with a sly smirk. 

“Charming as this is, I would appreciate a timely release,” Athos supplied curtly, bestowing an unimpressed scowl to their chatty rescuers.

“Good Lord,” Michel breathed out as the torch light illuminated d’Artagnan.

Bastian swore under his breath and immediately went to reach out for the young musketeer, but Athos knew this to be a terrible move. D’Artagnan was already on edge, the Gascon needed to calm his mind down in order to sleep, being approached by a potential threat was not the best way to achieve this. 

“Leave him be,” Athos ordered the musketeers, “we will deal with him.”

To this they gave Athos a nod of agreement, setting to work on releasing the three before standing back so that the trio could attend their protégé. Once freed from his shackles, Athos slowly made his way over to d’Artagnan’s crouched form.

“I have his effects,” Bastian told them, leaning over to place d’Artagnan’s rapier, pistol and jacket before the twitching musketeer. However Porthos was quick to stop the eager musketeer, physically placing himself between d’Artagnan and Bastian.

“The last thing you should do is give him a weapon,” Athos drawled slowly as he gave Bastian a patronising stare.

“Careful of his ribs,” Aramis warned over Athos’ shoulder, “we don’t want further complications.”

“Agreed,” Athos muttered, bending down slightly as he approached the young musketeer as though the Gascon were a wounded animal. “D’Artagnan?” he tried, reaching out slowly. 

As the young musketeer gave no notice to Athos’ presence, the elder saw his opportunity to move closer. “Which side?” Athos asked of Aramis, nodding to d’Artagnan’s ribs.

“Left side,” Aramis offered quickly as Athos took d’Artagnan’s right arm, promptly pulling it over his shoulder to lever the younger musketeer into a standing position. Though d’Artagnan moaned slightly and flinched under Athos’ touch, the Gascon made no further protest, which Athos was entirely grateful for. In d’Artagnan’s state it would be easy to over power the younger man, but Athos knew this would cause more grief than aid.

Slowly they made their way through the tunnels of the estate’s lower basements, carefully ushering d’Artagnan up stairs and through the manor out into the bright courtyard where the other musketeers were grouped ready to depart.

D’Artagnan’s complexion in the sunlight was even more worrying; dark ashen smudges clung under his eyes, made all the more dark by the pale yellowish tinge that the Gascon had accumulated during their imprisonment. His eyes were shod with blood red rims and veins, completely unfocused upon all that happened around him. However despite all of this, d’Artagnan stood upright – though he leaned a little on Athos – and his eyes remained opened, determined not to fall asleep.

“We could punch him?” Porthos suggested with a shrug.

“A concussion in this state could force him into a sleep he would never wake from…” Aramis was quick to brush this idea away with a sharp shake of his head, “he just needs to relax; once his mind slows down his body will take over.”

“Give me a minute,” Athos told them, gifting the two a look that asked for compliance, to which they relented without a word. "D'Artagnan you need to sleep," he told the younger man.

"No," d'Artagnan muttered back in stubborn reply, determined to ignore any requested made by his imagined interrogators.

Athos sighed, gently cupped the musketeer’s face, careful to avoid the bruises that littered the Gascon’s neck and chin. He warmth from the younger’s skin was a touch worrying but it was something that could be dealt with at a later moment. “D’Artagnan, you have held out remarkably against this torment, more than any I know, but you cannot continue this way, you must sleep. _Please._ ” 

Oddly enough, Athos’ desperate tones seemed to alert d’Artagnan attention. The Gascon’s bloodshot brown eyes meeting Athos’ own in obvious recognition.

“Athos?” d’Artagnan croaked, his hoarse voice revealing his desperate exhaustion. “’Mis, P’thos,” his dark eyes turned in the direction of Aramis and Porthos as the former saw to the latter’s head wound. 

“We are out, everyone is safe.” Athos stressed carefully, making sure the younger man understood. 

“Safe…” d’Artagnan repeated slowly, as if his shattered mind were trying to comprehend the meaning of the word. 

“Yes,” Athos confirmed strongly, reassuring the young soldier of facts. It was a method that had come in use when dealing with Aramis’ Savoy flashbacks. Clear honest facts could not be refuted by an addled mind. “We are to head to a local inn to rest before making our journey back to Paris,” Athos informed the Gascon.

“Suárez?” d’Artagnan frowned, his eyelids drooping heavily as he attempted to look around for the rebel leader.

“Taken care of,” Athos explained simply. 

“Condesa…” d’Artagnan met Athos’ gaze, looking far too exhausted to even still be holding a coherent conversation. 

“Safe in Paris with her cousin.” Athos nodded, his voice calm and quietly, in the hope that his tones would soothe d’Artagnan’s alert mind.

 _“Safe…”_ d’Artagnan repeated once more, his heavy eyelids slowly drooping lower as his mind began to relax. 

“Go to sleep.”

“Yeah…” was all that the Gascon could articulate before his body succumbed to the wave of exhaustion that envelopment him completely, knees buckling under his weight. Athos was quick to reaction, catching the young musketeer well before he hit the ground.

“Please tell me you sang him a lullaby and he just nodded off in your arms,” Aramis appeared beside him with Porthos in tow, looking a damn sight better with the blood washed from his face. 

Athos said nothing to this and raised his eyebrow slightly, but Aramis chuckled all the same. Aramis then leaned forward, gently pressed the unconscious Gascon’s rib cage with careful consideration not to awaken the resting musketeer. Though Aramis was sure that nothing could awaken d’Artagnan now that he had finally succumbed to sleep.

“Two broken ribs,” Aramis murmured quietly, looking up at his brothers beside him. “I’ll wrap them at the inn.”

“Take the cart,” Athos noted, nodding to a large wooden cart, “Carrying him may shift something, as will riding.”

With a silent nod of agreement, Porthos and Athos eased the sleeping musketeers upon the straw-filled cart, making sure not to jostle his ribs or cause him any discomfort. 

“A little too much excitement for the little puppy?” one of the musketeers – Donais – snorted unabashedly, “Had to take a nap did he?” 

“Next time you can suffer a week’s interrogation and d’Artagnan can be the one to stroll in at the last minute,” Porthos growled fiercely at the snide musketeer, his own wounds spurring his anger.

“Lower your voices,” Athos told them in a harsh whisper, noting the deep frown upon d’Artagnan’s resting features. Satisfied that the Gascon would not awaken, Athos turned back to the musketeers with a stony expression. “If _anyone_ wakes him, I will sell their horse and they can walk back to Paris.”

This message was received loud and clear as no one spoke for the remainder of their journey to the inn, carefully avoiding Athos’ gaze, offering their aid and unwavering support for the injured musketeers.

Just as Aramis had assured, sleep had proved to be the cure for d’Artagnan’s addled state. Though the young musketeer had the others worried when he slept soundly for the next two days, only to waken on the eve of the second day; slightly confused as to his location but whole of mind and coherent, asking after food and water.

It had been a breath of cool relief when d’Artagnan had awoken, silencing the inner monologue of worries that had plagued Athos’ mind over the past few weeks. Though slightly bruised and battered they had thankfully all made it through these trials without lasting consequences.


	2. Aramis walks into a bank… (Modern AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis walks into a bank… (Modern AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first attempt at an AU… :O Yeah not 100% sure with this one, but we'll see…  
> It's a little longer than it was meant to be, but it kinda got away on me..
> 
> Prompt:  
> "Aramis walks into a bank only to get taken hostage by the people robbing it, while Athos and Porthos (I added d’Artagnan cause I couldn’t help myself ☺ ) are waiting in the car outside"
> 
> Warnings : Blood, violence, a touch of swearing… yeah all the fun stuff.  
> ( also all I've learn about bank robberies come from television… so yeah… )

 

 

_Thursday 2:56 pm_

“I swear you must be the only person, under seventy, who still insists on having _actual_ paper pay cheques…”Porthos sighed as they sat back in the passenger’s seat, pulling his sunglasses down from the top of his head as he address the man in the seat directly behind him through the mirror upon the sun visor.

They had been sat in the black SUV for a few minutes now, teasing Aramis for the fact that the man insisted upon them all going to the bank so that he could deposit his payslip, regardless of the fact that even Tréville had begged to pay the man directly into his account.

“Why don’t you just do it online?” d’Artagnan wondered, leaning back against the window on his side, though there were no such questions from both Athos and Porthos, who had learnt to simply deal with the other man’s idiosyncrasies.

“I like the personal interaction,” Aramis sniffed defensively, folding the small cheque crisply before placing it into his jacket pocket. “Technology is destroying the art and pleasure of conversation, I prefer to see the face of the people who are protecting my money.”

“You like to flirt with the red-head that cashes your cheques,” Porthos muttered with a slight roll of his eyes, which was completely lost on the man behind him, though after all these years Aramis could practically hear the eye roll in Porthos' voice.

“Catlin isn’t working today,” Aramis shook his head in the negative before he caught a glimpse of the sly smirk upon Porthos’ lips in the mirror's reflection. 

“The fact that you knew that proves my point completely,” Porthos chuckled as he lifted his head towards the man behind him, even though he still could not see Aramis from that angle. 

“I can’t believe I’m wasting my first day off in weeks running your errands…”d’Artagnan grumbled, “I could be doing something useful, like sleeping…”

“Sleep in the car,” Athos suggested in a dulled tone.

“I sleep in a car every other day when we’re on a case, I need to sleep in a proper bed with pillows and a quilt,” d’Artagnan retorted, shifting himself in his seat as though uncomfortable, demonstrating his argument.

“Hey, we spent our last few days off putting together all of your Ikea furniture…” Porthos countered, pointing at the younger man with an accusing stare. The very mention of the horrid afternoon seemed to cause Athos to cringe. After hours of silently declaring war against Sweden, Athos had finally come to maddening realisation that they had made the side table backwards. From that moment on he vowed never to touch an allen key again. 

“And the time before that we looked after Porthos’ neighbour’s kids,” Aramis offered, smiling a little at the memory.

“Don’t remind me…” d’Artagnan groaned, clearly have flashbacks of his tortuous afternoon around a child’s plastic fairy princess table, pouring tea for teddy bears and frilly dolls. As the youngest, d’Artagnan had been overruled by the other three, who had immediately volunteered him for young Gretel’s tea party.

“Wonder what that says about us?” Porthos pondered aloud, looking across at Athos.

“That we clearly don’t know how to deal with down time…” Athos offered with a small shrug.

“Probably,” Aramis noted offhandedly with a nonchalant expression, knowing that there was a laundry list of things that could read from their peculiar behaviours. “Anyone wish to accompany me?”

To this, Aramis’ question was met with complete and utter silence, with each of the car’s occupants avoiding his gaze. Aramis received this message loud and clear.

“Well, I know when I’m not wanted,” he chuckled slightly, opening the side door before slipping out onto the street. “I shall return a richer man.” 

“Bring me back a lollypop,” Porthos quipped to the man behind him.

“It’s a bank not a doctor’s office,” Aramis shot back but he smirked a little all the same, closing the door with a gentle slam, instinctively checking for traffic before making his was across the street.

The building was near identical to that of all the newly refurbished banks in the area, cream walls with colourful advertising and photos promoting interest rates and home loans, accompanied by horridly patterned floor of carpet. Though it was an old building, the interior had been recently refurbished in the corporate style, installing large sheets of protective glass between the cashiers and their customers.

The bank itself seemed relatively empty for a Thursday afternoon, with only six or seven people waiting to be served by the cashiers behind the glass.

Two men stood to one side of the room, seemingly waiting to be served, however something about the way they stood drew Aramis’ attention. They were hunched over, avoiding eye contact with others in the bank, keeping their heads down to blend into the background, trying to remain inconspicuous, though their attempts only seemed to draw more attention to them. One of them looked to be in late thirties, early forties, with a scruff of stubble that looked rougher than a cheese grater, a large tattoo of an eagle upon this neck. The other was a young baby-faced, doe-eyed boy, all gangly limbs and bones, looking as though he should be on his way to high school rather than hovering suspiciously around a bank teller’s counter.

Adrenaline spiked within Aramis as his trained eyes locked upon the glint of a handgun peeking out the top the elder man’s jeans. A quick glance over the younger found a second firearm tucked into the boy’s jacket. 

 _Surely they couldn’t be that stupid…_  

Aramis’ eyes trailed over the other occupants in the bank; a slightly overweight businessman, an elderly woman in her mid seventies at least, a young mother on the phone to her husband – loudly discussing what to feed their young toddler -  two tellers behind the counter; a thin young man with an unfortunate complexion and a middle-aged woman with appalling long false nails, as well as the unnaturally enthusiastic bottle blonde woman at the welcome desk. Six. Far too many to risk in a hostile take down, especially when the odds were three to one, and they were armed. He also couldn’t risk walking out to get the others, these men looked seconds away from putting their plan into action. Mentally kicking himself for leaving his phone in the car, he bit his lip in concentration.

Taking another precious second, Aramis quickly studied the two gunmen. In no way did they look experienced; their nervousness was easily read from across the room, however that was not always a clear indication of how easy it would be to dissuade the assailants. Anxiety and loaded weapons were not a good mix. 

He would need to try and separate the men before they had a chance to act. Though with his mind distracted upon creating his plan, he realised a second too late that there was someone looming behind him.The hair upon the back of his neck prickled as he felt a presence move closer toward him. 

“Not another move,” a voice threated menacingly, as a gun was buried roughly into the small of Aramis’ back, slid snuggly between his tenth and eleventh vertebrae.

“You do realise that glass is bulletproof,” Aramis offered casually to the man behind him, nodding towards the cashiers desks. “And there a four – no, five – cameras in this room that have already captured you entering a public area with a loaded firearm.”

“Not for much longer,” the man sneered, nodding to the two men across the room. Without a moment’s paused, the two men revealed their weapons, the elder of the two firing off several shots towards the cameras in the room. Though the man eventually destroyed one of the cameras, it took a little longer than it necessarily should have. The younger of the men covered the remaining cameras with a thick spray of black paint. As the elder emptied his weapon, Aramis almost cringed as he saw the gunman reload – they had prepared for a need to carry ammunition. That was not a good sign; it meant the guns hadn’t been intended to be used for show.

At the sound of gunfire the patrons of the bank dropped to the floor, releasing screams of panicked terror and alarm.

“And shots fired…” Aramis rolled his eyes, voice low and quiet though dripping with condescension. These men were utter idiots. “You’ve now alerted _every officer_ within five miles that you’re robbing this bank…” 

“That’s the plan,” the man at his back chuckled breathily with a menacing tone, sounding far too cocky for his own good. Arrogance was not an admirable quality in an ill-trained, gun-welding assailant. 

“That’s a terrible plan,” Aramis snorted, dipping his head slightly as he let it shake. Porthos was never going to let him forget the fact that these amateur jokers had held him hostage. Clearly not his finest hour. 

“Any other bright ideas?” the man behind him snarled as the other two walked over.

“Leaving quickly before you make any other stupid decisions?” Aramis offered with a hopeful tone, though he could see his efforts were in vain.

Slowly but directly, the elder man before him levelled the newly loaded gun to the centre of Aramis’ forehead. However, at that moment all Aramis was concentrating on was the fact that the man was angling his weapon heavily to the left, with his finger nowhere near the trigger. He was absolutely fighting the urge to give this man a lecture in proper weapon handling, because honestly where had this man learn to hold a gun, some cheesy 80s gang movie?

His internal pet peeves were silenced as the man behind him roared out to the bank's patrons.

“Everyone stay down and put your hands above your head,” he yelled, causing them to comply immediately and Aramis to close his eyes in frustration. That definitely counted as something stupid. “ _This is a robbery_.”

 

†††

_3:19pm_

“Wanna play?” Porthos peered across the car’s cabin at the man behind the wheel, gesturing to the phone in his hand.

Though the weather outside of the vehicle was a sweltering temperate, inside the three were slightly chilled by the frosty air conditioner. Athos’ car was always used in the event they all travelled together, for several reasons. One, it was by far the most luxurious; leather interior with state of the art features, actual functioning airbags and a rather impressive sound system. Two, d’Artagnan and Porthos didn’t own a car, feeling they did not require one as they live so close within the city and they usually had the use of the issued vehicles and three, Athos could not stand Aramis’ car, even less so when Aramis let Charles - _speed limit, what speed limit_? - d’Artagnan drive, claiming if he wished to kill himself he could just as easily walk out into oncoming traffic. Hence, they had all agreed – for the sake of all parties involved – Athos would simply have to drive.

“What sort of impression have I given that makes you think I want to play _scrabble_?” Athos looked over his sunglasses condescendingly at the man beside, uttering the word ‘scrabble’ in the same tone as one would utter ‘genital herpes’. 

“How is ‘jawan’ a word?” d’Artagnan frowned slightly as he looked up from his phone, glaring across the car towards his triumphant opponent. With Aramis gone, the younger man had stretched his longs legs across the entire back seat. “Is that even French?”

“Apparently, cause now I’m up 58 points,” Porthos smiled victoriously, laughing unabashedly as he presented his phone screen at the younger man. 

“It’s a soldier in the Indian army, so technically not French,” Athos drawled slowly, sounding particularly bored with their current situation, tipping his head back against his seat’s headrest.

“I thought you weren’t playing?” Porthos teased the other man slightly with a playful smirk.

“I’m not, I’m teaching,” Athos corrected, unaffected by the taunt.

“You’re _cheating_ ,” d’Artagnan accused Porthos, leaning forward in his seat to poke his head between the occupied front seats.

“Not cheating if the game allows it,” he retorted smugly, waving the phone cockily “you’re turn.” 

D’Artagnan scowled, opening his mouth to retort, though before he could issue any sort of retaliation a sharp rap to Athos’ window startled the three, alerting them to the familiar face beside the car. 

Captain Tréville stood by the door with a stern, unwavering look of suspicion and confusion upon his furrowed brows, arms crossed as he peered down at the car’s occupants.

“Captain,” Athos nodded curtly as he rolled the window down, pausing with a cautious frown, placing his sunglasses upon his head as he looked up his superior. “What are you doing here?”

“Bank across the street pulled the silent alarm, shots fired and several hostages taken,” Tréville explained in an authoritative tone, gesturing to the number of police vehicles arriving behind him. “What I want to know is what you lot are doing sitting across the street from it?”

Athos felt a sharp chill grasp his chest tight, eyes flickering at the cream building then back to his Captain.

“ _Hostages_?” Porthos repeated with a tight growl, his teeth clenched as his mood turn thunderous. The tension within the cabin of the vehicle building with each moment that passed. 

“What is it?” Tréville’s suspicion turned to worry as he realised he had only counted three where normally there would be four. 

“Aramis is in there,” d’Artagnan’s gaze turned wide as he looked towards the bank.

 

†††

_3:16pm_

“I want everyone out here now and on the floor!” The man from behind him roared, removing his gun from Aramis’ back in order to swing it across the room, clearly enjoying the power of the people cringing under the gaze of the gun.

With the gun removed from his spine, Aramis could now turn to see whom it was who had been threatening him. The man in charge of this circus of an operation looked so ordinary it was almost frightening. He seemed to be mid-thirties, mousy-brown hair with no defining features or anything remarkable about him. His fingers held several gold rings, which seemed to match the small gold stud in his right ear, though other than that the man seemed to match the title of Caucasian male, tall and dark.

“Get out here!” the man demanded toward the workers of the bank, he clearly was the most aggressive of the three men and evidently the ringleader in this chaotic circus. 

The tellers behind the glass were hesitant to move, visibly weighing up the options of staying behind the protected glass and Aramis did not blame them. Between safety and a crazed man with a gun, it was difficult for many to choose the latter.

“Out here or we start shooting,” the lead gunman snarled, gesturing with his gun, skimming it in a crescent shape slowly across the room, lining up several victims in his sights.  “On the floor,” he ordered the tellers, before turning to Aramis, who was the only patron of the bank left standing. “ _You too_.” 

Sensing no other option, Aramis raised his hands and complied quietly, lowering into a seated position slowly, with his back against the bank’s awfully bland cream walls. It was with great reluctance that Aramis obeyed the gunmen’s request, however with one gun still firmly trained upon him – and another fixed upon anxious civilians – he had little other alternatives.

As the young male teller stepped out of the heavy security door, the lead gunman stepped forward, yanking the man’s shoulder, disorientating the poor frightened bank worker.

“Where’s the safe?” the armed assailant demanded, tucking the gun under the frightened teller’s chin, kneading it mercilessly so that the threat was clear.

“It’s in the back,” the young blonde revealed with a panicked gasp, trembling under the gunman’s hardened glare. 

Aramis watched the scene carefully, hating how useless he felt in the situation. Perhaps if he could take on their weapons, turn the situation around somehow. But it still left far too many variables. If he pushed then, one of the men could get anxious and fire, which was something they did not need.

“Well go an’ open it,” the gunman pressed, pushing man away roughly so that the poor young bank teller almost tripped over his own feet.

“I don’t know the code,” the teller whimpered, raising his hands up high in surrender.

“Who does?” the furious man turned to the other employees of the bank with a cold fury that demanded answers.

“Our manager, but she’s out in a meeting this afternoon,” the young man spluttered, his attention solely focused upon the gun before him.

“ _What_?” the ringleader froze and the teller’s reveal, visibly surprised by the information he’d just received. 

 _Oh by the good Lord…_ Aramis dropped his head into his hands for his unbelievably atrocious luck. Of course he would be the one to be stuck in a hostage situation by the absolute worst bank robbers in the history of the world. Had they even cased the building before choosing it? Surely even amateur crooks had seen enough Hollywood heist films to know that basic information about their intended target was essential? That anonymity was critical in the success of armed robbery? They hadn't seemed to but a moment's thought into preparing for the theft. Part of him wished to point out these mistakes to the men, but decided it probably wasn’t the smartest move he could try, considering as he had only just had the guns removed from his head and back.

“So no one here knows the passcode?” the gruff assailant growled out through clenched teeth, his frustration clear as his eyes tore over their hostages.

“It’s standard procedure…” the teller gulped, releasing a small noise like a wounded animal. 

It took a great deal of effort not to exhale an exaggerated sigh as the three gunmen stood before the room of captives, looking at a loss as to what to do.

With no code for the safe, all the men could hope to take was the cash in the registers, a mere pittance for the effort they had gone to. And Aramis was sure this would not satisfy their desires.

 

†††

 _3:35pm_  

“I’m going in there,” Porthos demanded as they made their way over the police van where Tréville had men setting up a base of operations. The larger man glared furiously at the tall cream building across from them as though its plastered façade offended him. 

With the security cameras destroyed, there was no way of seeing what was occurring behind the thick stone walls, leaving them the tortuous task of waiting for orders. 

Inaction did not suit Porthos, it never had. The larger man abhorred the feeling of uselessness and powerlessness in these sorts of situations and Aramis’ absence made it all the more worrying. 

“They have not made a list of demands yet, if we send you in now they might get nervous,” Athos tired to soothe the taller man with diplomacy and level-headedness, hoping Porthos would see the rationality in his words. “You don’t exactly read as innocuous. The last thing we want to do is spook armed men.” 

“Damn it,” Porthos growled, punching his hands into his pockets with burning frustration, “Why couldn’t he just use an ATM like a normal person?”

“Because he’s Aramis,” Athos gave a small smirk towards the distressed man. Over the years they had spent a great deal of time in each others company, learning the quirks and oddities that made up each of the trio. And though these traits often bothered the others at times, they were also the things they loved about one another.

“Who’s that…?” d’Artagnan’s voice caused Athos to look up in the direction the younger man was pointing. The sound of screeching tyres drew their attention instantly as several vehicles arrived on the scene. 

“I’ve called in Rochefort’s taskforce,” Tréville reveal with a tight tone, avoiding the gaze of the two officers beside him.

 _“What?”_ Porthos growled furiously as he watched the armoured vans park across from them, creating a barrier between the bank and the surrounding civilians.

“You cannot possibly be serious?” Athos shot his superior a dubious look, as though he thought Tréville had gone mad.

“We’re handling this,” Porthos stated firmly.

“You’re all too close to this,” Tréville shook his head, “one of our own is in there, we need someone who can act as negotiator, we can’t afford emotions to get in the way.”

“And _Rochefort_ is your first choice?” Porthos growled, eyebrows rising high upon his forehead as his gritted teeth.

D’Artagnan looked over toward Athos to try and gain information as to whom they were discussing. New to the division, d’Artagnan had yet to learn all of the interdepartmental politics and personal grudges that each of them carried for their supposed colleagues, though Athos did not see fit at that moment to discuss their illusive history with the arrogant officer, another time perhaps, one where Aramis was not being held against his will.

“He’s an experienced negotiator and exemplary squadron leader, I have confidence in his work regardless of your personal issues with him,” Tréville told Porthos with a stern gaze, keeping his tone and stance professional. “Rochefort will be calling the shots on this operation. You three are off duty, with a conflicting interest in this situation. I have the authority to treat you as civilians, do not give me a reason to put you behind those barriers,” Tréville cautioned, nodding to the barricades being placed around the street, sectioning off the area from the general public.

“You have our word,” Athos complied though his tone revealed he did so unwillingly.

As d’Artagnan had never met Rochefort Tréville practically ignored his compliant nod, focusing his attention upon the more sour, ill-tempered looking of the worried trio. 

“Porthos?" 

 _“Agreed,”_ Porthos growled out with great reluctance, casting daggering glares at the blonde man approaching them.

“Hello boys,” the low tones of the cock-sure Captain as he met their gaze with a wide tooth-baring smirk. 

_“Rochefort.”_

  

†††

 

 _3:34pm_  

The trio of armed men stood before the exit, huddled together, whispering frantically as they discussed their options.

“Everyone put your shoes and phones in the centre of the room,” one of the men - the younger of the three - shouted across the room, walking towards the hostages, gesturing with his handgun as stalked about the room in distress. The lack of access to the safe had thrown the three gunmen, forcing them to improvise, which was never a good point of call, not for the hostages or their captors. 

Casually Aramis complied with their wishes, tossing his boots into the centre of the room, rather impressed that today of all days he appeared to have matched his socks. One wouldn't think this hard to do as his sock collection consisted of plain black and white, though somehow he seemed to manage it.

“I don’t have a phone,” Aramis sighed as a gun was inexpertly directed towards him for the umpteenth time that afternoon. Though the sceptical look from the young man before him, prompted Aramis to continue. “I left it in the car.”

"Yeah right," the young man scoffed, pointing his gun at Aramis' chest as he patted down his pockets, grabbing his wallet out from his pocket, he gave Aramis a hard look before stepping back. “What’s this then?”

“That’s not a phone,” Aramis offered with a patronising tone, as the boy tossed his wallet onto a pile of shoes and mobiles. Though the young man said nothing in response as he was far too occupied with the fact that lights had gone out and the hum of the air conditioner no longer churned in the distance.

"What was that?" the youngest assailant span around to catch the attention of his friends.

“And the power’s out…” Aramis sighed as he tipped his head back against the wall, figuring he might as well get comfortable. With the lights and air-conditioning switched off, the room was going to get stifling fast. This was only going to rile up the gunmen, making them anxious. It was standard procedure in these cases but at that moment it felt beyond irritating. Why add heat to an already frustrating situation? 

“No talking,” the elder gunman growled, pulled back the younger as they checked the other hostages for personal effects.

Aramis gave a nod, giving his captor a gesture of compliance. There would be no use agitating these men. They were clearly not smart enough to target an older bank further out from the city centre, instead of one fitted with updated security measures and in close proximity to the Police Headquarters. A response team was probably already here; if he just faded into the background he would be out in about twenty minutes or less. If the others were here with him, they might be able to overpower the three gunmen, however he was alone here. The others were outside and while he was glad that they were safe from the chaos, there was still a part of him that wished they were beside him. It was a lot easier to be blasé and charming when he had an audience.

The lack of cool air had turned the room stale and humid in a matter of minutes, or perhaps it was simply due to the combined stress and tension from those in the room. From where Aramis sat, he had clear view of the rest of the hostages. Most seemed to be dealing with the situation rather well, sitting quietly, though nervous, they were retaining a level of calm that was both beneficial for the situation and for their chances of getting out without any injuries to anxious civilians. 

However as Aramis turned his eye back upon the overweight man in the suit and tie, he realized the situation was about to get bad fast. The man was not only sweating profusely, which was understandable given the room’s rising temperature, but he was getting agitated and frustrated, glaring up at the three gunmen huddled in the corner with a rich and dangerous hatred that sent a sick feeling to the pit of Aramis’ stomach. Though before he could do anything to dissuade the situation, the man yelled out across the room.  

“What the hell are you keeping us for, huh?” The man said, standing up as he made his demands. Dressed in a rather fine fitted suit, he was clearly an executive or high-flyer from one of the offices in the surrounding area. He was probably a honcho of some large company or other, a giant of industry, but with an obvious lack of observation and common sense. The gunmen were idiots, yes, but they were armed with semi-automatics, whereas the hostages had no weapons to speak of. “You can’t get the fucking money, so just let us go!”

“Sit down,” the eldest gunman growled, pointing his weapon in the businessman's general direction, the eagle upon his neck pulsing visibly with the anger coursing beneath. 

“Yes, I do believe that’s wise,” Aramis proposed diplomatically as he glared at the man in the slick grey suit, though he made no attempt to move off from the floor. There always seemed to be one person who had seen far too many action films and thought of themselves as an everyday hero. But it was rare that moments such as these required a Clint Eastwood or Chuck Norris to fight their way out. What those films never showed was the wake or carnage and paperwork that type of behaviour resulted in. No, it was better to wait it out, sit in the shadows and appear inconspicuous while he watched carefully for a moment to shut the operation down. Drawing attention to himself would most likely end in someone getting hurt.

“I’m not just going to submit to these men! _You may be a coward,_ but I’m not,” the man spat at Aramis, disgust clearly read in his eyes as he scoffed brashly.

Strangely enough, as Aramis sat trapped in a rapidly stifling bank by gun totting idiots, it was not the gunmen who were causing the sharp spike of anger to rise wickedly within him.

“There is a grand difference between cowardice and intelligence," Aramis whispered harshly, "now quiet down before you get yourself hurt.”

“Let us go,” the portly businessman turned to their captors, addressing them aggressively, ignoring Aramis' words completely.

“Sit your arse down!” the eldest gunmen demanded, waving his weapon inexpertly, his finger careless upon the trigger.

“Just sit down,” Aramis urged with a groan, standing to try and pull the bull-headed man to the floor, taking the man's arm in an attempt to persuade him.

“Don't touch me," the man snapped in reply, pulling his arm away. 

“I said sit down!” the gunman roared in furious anger, tensing violently at the threat to his authority. 

"I will not!"

_"Sit!"_

The next few moments felt as though they were played in fast forward and slow motion all at once.

With no more than a split second to make a decision, the officer portion of his mind kicked in, calculation the risk and the threat to a civilian before he leapt between the men, pushing the larger man to the floor. However in the brief moment of reaction, Aramis saw the miscalculations of his actions - he had no choice in the matter as the heat of a bullet met his shoulder with a sickening force, pushing him back onto the floor before he could even contemplate what had occurred. 

Once upon the ground there was an odd absence of all sound as the occupants in the room held their breaths in shock. There was no pain to be felt in this moment of anticlimactic absence, just the beat of his own heart, the echoing thud of his racing heart and the apprehension that this moment was soon to be lost into a chaos of mind-raging agony.

“That didn’t go according to plan,” Aramis hissed through clenched teeth as the numbing walls of bliss gave way to the wave of fresh, unapologetic pain hit him without mercy.

 

††† 

 _3:49pm_  

“Shots fired, repeat, shots fired in the building,” Rochefort barked into his radio as a series of officers scurried about him.

Porthos growled low and dangerously as his whole body tensed at the news, hands clenched tight, showing nothing by white knuckles. They had all easily heard the single gunshot from inside the building, a stab of cold fear piercing their hearts as they awaiting information. From where they stood, it was unclear whether it was a warning shot or a shot to kill, but all waiting with baited breath for any news or confirmation.

“He’ll be fine,” Athos murmured quietly as they watched the bank intently, his body an unmoving rock against a swarm of officers flittered about him in a chaotic frenzy. At their position, across the street, they could not see any of the happenings inside the bank, which was not particularly reassuring.

“Right up until the point where he’s not,” Porthos retorted sharply, not taking his gaze from the heavy doors that stood between them and Aramis. 

“He’s been in worse,” Athos offered lightly, attempting unsuccessfully to catch the taller man’s eye. “I recall a particular holiday to Rome that was far worse than this is now,” he offered before changing his voice to a more serious tone, “and then there was Savoy…”   

“Not the point and you know it,” Porthos bit out, though he had seemed to relax ever so slightly.

“He knows what he’s doing,” Athos inform him, though they both knew this fact, it was something that needed to be said aloud in order to ease both their nerves.

“I know he does,” Porthos grumbled with an irritated sigh, “I just like to be there when he does it.”

 

†††

 _3:50pm_  

The pain was not an unfamiliar sensation though it was far from welcome. An overwhelming thrum of red-hot blood rushing _pooling_ into his fingers, as the world around him seemed to fade into the background, sound dulling slightly under the sharp ring of his ears. Breathing took a herculean effort; even swallowing seemed difficult as the heat of agony seeped throughout his body like a rich hot poison.

Somehow he had gone from standing to be upon the floor, right hand cradling his left shoulder instinctively as he recovered from the initial shock of the attack. 

Struggling to calm his hitching pained breaths Aramis forced himself to concentrate of the chaos around him. The shot had created a great deal of panic and fear in an already tense situation.

Using his right, uninjured, arm to push himself upright, Aramis shuffled, with great difficulty, back to the wall behind him. His breathing hitched alarming as he fought his body to try and regain his breath against the constant bombardments of fresh unwavering agony.   Absently, he chuckled lightly at the pool of blood upon the horrid carpet; at least they would have to redecorate now.

It was then that sound began to form into understandable tones, noise rushing back at him like a powerful wave.

“Christ, he’s a cop, we shot a cop.” He could hear one of the gunmen panicking in the corner, it sounded a little like the younger one, though he’d probably have to sit up to confirm this.

“What?" 

“Says here,” the youngest gunman held up Aramis’ wallet, presenting his department ID for the others to see, “ _René_   _Aramis_ _d’Herblay_ …”

“’Aramis’ will do…” Aramis mumbled with a tired sigh at his given name, dipping his head slightly, groaning into the pain that throbbed within his shoulder. “I’m actually an officer in an elite tactical division of the Gendarmerie, not a cop,” he corrected tightly, annoyed at once again being taken for a traffic warden or office-bound pencil pusher. 

“Some elite officer you are,” the portly businessman scoffed bitterly, though he was clearly shaken by the events that had occurred.

“I just took a bullet for you, a little gratitude wouldn’t go astray,” Aramis bit out at the man, gripping his shoulder tightly in an attempt to limit the bleeding. There didn’t seem to be any large gush or spurting occurring, which meant the bullet had thankfully not nicked an artery, and the bullet had passed through his shoulder sitting snugly in the wall behind where he had stood.

“We need to get him to a hospital, _please_ ,” the young mother against the opposite wall spoke up. She looked as though she had just come from the gym, dressed in yoga pants and a thin black coat. “The rest of us will stay if you let him go.”

“No one leaves until we have the money,” the leader of the gunmen bellowed, raising his gun so that they all were reminded of the consequences of insubordination.

“Thank you, but I’m quite alright,” Aramis gave the woman a reassuring smile, which was completely undermined by his paling complexion and the blood seeping over his fingers. “Amazingly this isn’t the worst situation I’ve been in.” 

Evidently the young mother was not in the least soothed by Aramis’ declaration, rather her mouth became tight with worry, her terror-filled eyes never leaving the oozing wound.

“Though may I have your coat, Madame?” Aramis asked, biting back a moan as he pressed his hand more firmly into the injury. “I’m afraid leather is not the most absorbent,” he gave her a weak smile as he nodded to his brown leather jacket.

“Oh God,” the young woman choked at the sight of the bloodied jacket, quickly shedding her outer layer, attempting to stand in to deliver it to the injured man. 

“Don’t move!” the man who had shot Aramis swang his weapon around, taking the petrified woman in his sights.

“Oh my God,” the woman froze instantly, her hands trembling violently as she raised them above her head, black coat hanging from one hand. 

“ _Stop it_ ,” Aramis sighed, becoming frustrated with the armed men before him, his shoulder was coursing with raw pain and the idiocy of the men around him was beyond infuriating. Any decent sort of bank thieves could be in and out of this place within the ten minute mark, distracting the tellers while another disabled the security and one to tackle the safe; in and out with skilful precision, like clockwork, taking the money without any need for this messy business. And though Aramis’ loyalty was to the side of the law, he did appreciate a certain level of professionalism from those he opposed. “Just stop pointing that thing at her and just hand me the damn coat,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. 

Sensing the man’s stubborn hesitation, Aramis continued, “Without proper pressure I’ll bleed out and you’ll have murder on your hands along with armed robbery.”

There was a brief pause as Aramis could practically see the cogs turning in the gunman’s mind, weighing up his options at a snail’s pace.

“ _Fine_ ,” the man snarled after a moment, keeping the gun trained upon the woman as he snatched the jacket from her hand, tossing it carelessly into Aramis’ lap.

†††

 _3:55pm_  

“Alright, security cameras have been compromised, so we’re doing this blind,” Rochefort snapped into his radio, pacing as he spoke, his sharp blue eyes darting about the scene. “I want a team on the roof in five, someone get me visuals of what’s happening in there, camera footage from before they went dark shows around ten individuals, get me a confirmation.”

“Send us in,” Porthos snarled as he refused to budge from his position, his eyes beseeching Tréville for the go ahead. “Give us clearance, we can have him out in less than ten.”

Before Tréville could offer any word on the matter, Rochefort threw his radio into the van and closed the distance between Porthos and himself.

“My operation, _du Vallon_ ,” Rochefort stood up to his full height, though he came a few inches short of Porthos. “That means I call the shots, while you and your little _merry men_ just sit and look pretty, understood?” 

"Just let Rochefort do his job," Tréville sighed wearily, running a tired hand through his grey hair, "excuse me I need to see to the press," Tréville groaned as he headed towards the large posse of flittering journalists and news cameras standing at the edge of the barrier.  

Porthos clicked his jaw as he gazed flicked back at Rochefort with an unwavering stare, stubborn and unmoving in his stance. 

"You've been told, du Vallon, move along," Rochefort sneered, his harsh tones riling up the younger man beside Porthos.   

“You and your team are mulling about out here, wasting time, while there are possible injured civilians in that building,” d’Artagnan stepped forward, frustration driven fury burning up inside as he faced the blonde Captain. “Operation procedure demands a structured plan of strategic negotiation with the enforcer within five minutes on site, it’s been near fifteen and you’ve done nothing about it.”  

“Are you questioning a superior officer, rookie?” Rochefort snorted as his sights turned upon the angry young officer.

Athos stepped towards his two fired up brothers, catching Porthos’ eye and he nodded his head towards d’Artagnan. Rochefort was an unimaginably cruel bastard. A true manipulator of the world around him and not someone that d’Artagnan needed to get on the wrong side of, particularly this early in his career. While the trio had had countless dealings with the rouge Captain over the years, d’Artagnan was still raw and far too hot-headed to be going head to head with the likes of Rochefort. It would only end in suspension or worse. 

Porthos tightened his glare at Athos, clearly resenting the fact that he would have to stand down in order to dissuade d’Artagnan, but the larger man sighed slightly in acknowledgement, realising that d’Artagnan’s fury had been a reflection of Porthos’. 

“ _Yes_ , I –” d’Artagnan went to verbally berate the blonde negotiator through Porthos cut him off, placing a hand upon the younger’s chest, physically pushing him back, away from Rochefort.

“He’s right, d’Artagnan, stand down,” Porthos bit out through clenched teeth, his pride fighting him over every word.

“What?” d’Artagnan growled as Rochefort sent a smug smirk in the younger man’s direction.

“You need a lesson in manners,” the blonde man snarled; glare tightening as he studied the younger man.

“I believe you have an operation that requires your attention, Captain,” Athos told the man sharply with a raised brow, before Rochefort could provoke d'Artagnan further.

“I do, don’t I?” Rochefort smiled in an arrogant fashion, “always a pleasure gentlemen,” he added before talking his leave, heading towards a team of officers being fitted with Kevlar vests.  

“Why did you do that?” d’Artagnan snapped as he watched Rochefort swan away like a victorious peacock.

“You chinning the onsite negotiator isn’t going to help anyone,” Porthos told d’Artagnan with a scornful tone, voicing the silent warning Athos had expressed.

“But he’s wasting time, they should be out by now,” d’Artagnan argued, anxiety bleeding through his words.

Athos and Porthos held a silent conversation with their eyes. Though he was technically still a new recruit, d’Artagnan had seen far more than most in his first six months. But this was the first time something had happened to one of them outside of work hours, like somehow being off duty had assured safety in the eyes of their youngest. 

“I know lad,” Porthos sighed, placing a strong hand upon d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “But c’mon, this is Aramis,” he chuckled a little forcefully, though only Athos noticed, “he could probably get himself out _blindfolded_.”

Athos sent Porthos a look, nodding slightly over d’Artagnan head; amused at the ironic comfort Porthos was giving to their youngest.

 

†††

 _4:15pm_  

Eerily the bank had gone quiet. No one so much as breathed loudly in fear that they might be next, and the heat of the room had begun to drain their energy. Though the slight lull in activity had given Aramis a chance to assess his injuries. The shot had passed through cleanly, which he was rather thankful for. A sluggish bleed told him no arteries had been hit, though from the pain he could not tell if his collarbone had been broken or not. But he was very glad he wasn’t in a critical condition. He could last another hour or so. He had to have faith in his brothers outside as well as in the humanity of his captors. 

The youngest was pacing frantically before them, hand trembling beneath the weight of the gun in his grip. The elder two had gone into the other room to discuss their options, not wishing their hostages to see how truly out of their depth they really were. 

“First time robbing a bank?” Aramis posed curiously, with condescending smirk. It was frightening how young the boy was, definitely younger than d’Artagnan, perhaps seventeen, eighteen at the most. He watched with a curious eye as the young gunman’s hands tremble. Clearly the boy was inexperienced with holding firearms; his grip was utterly atrocious, far too rigid, no sense of adjustment for its weight and size, even the safety was on. What sort of criminal didn’t realise he had the safety on? Or perhaps he had turned it on after the incident before. If so that was probably a wise move. Perhaps he could talk some sense into the young man, end this madness peacefully.

“What? Did you think it would be like the movies? Cash in a sac?” Aramis chuckled, though he regretting it instantly, wincing at the shot of pain that coursed through his entire body from the movement. “Drive off into the sunset in an open top Cadillac?”

“Shut it,” the boy grunted, though there didn’t seem to be any malice behind his words.

“Hey, you’re friends are the one’s that shot me,” he drawled slowly, watching the young man carefully, making sure he did not set the boy off. “Not my fault I get chatty when I’m injured.”

“Brothers,” the young man corrected quietly, hanging his head, “they’re my brother’s not my friends.”

 _Brothers_ , Aramis nearly laughed, did the boy want to be caught?

“Look, uh…” Aramis paused, praying that his hunch was correct.

“Jean,” the boy offered simply, casually, forgetting all pretence of the situation about him.

“ _Jean,_ ” Aramis quickly masked his surprise as the boy had giving his name freely. It was clear this could be his only opportunity to reach out to the young man, convince him of what he needed to do to stop the situation before anyone else got hurt. From the paling expression, it was easy to tell Jean felt guilty about Aramis’ wound – this was his best option.

Playing up a painful gasp, Aramis whimpered slightly, feeling a kick of satisfaction as Jean leaned forward to aid him. Though he had not need to exaggerate too much – the wound was furiously throbbing – it was nothing he hadn’t handled before, shoulder wounds could be messy, but in this case he’d been in luck.

“Are you alright?” Jean fretted manically, his eyes darting around Aramis’ wound.

“Slowly exsanguinating but other than that, I’m peachy,” Aramis croaked, tightening his grip on the woman’s coat upon his shoulder, cringing at the wetness that had already seeped through. 

“Ex-what?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Aramis breathed out with a tight smile, though his efforts were instantly shattered as he saw the lead gunman step through the heavy metal door.

“Hubért, where’s Marcus?” Jean frowned, looking about for his elder brother.

“You idiot,” Hubért snarled, cuffing the back of his younger brother’s head with the muzzle of his gun. Though the blow was not hard enough to knock the boy out, it was enough to cause Jean to gasp out loud and grab his head, looking up at the elder man with the expression of a wounded animal. 

“Marcus, get out here,” Hubért snapped as Aramis finally learnt the name of his shooter.

“I thought we agreed no names,” Marcus hissed.

“Genius here saw to that,” Hubért growled with get resentment of the younger man.

Suddenly the room was brought to a tense pause as the shrill of a phone echoed throughout the room. No one more, or said a word, all stood frozen starring at the bank’s landline as though it were a foreign object rigged to explode. 

“That would be for you,” Aramis gestured his head toward the ringing phone behind the welcome desk, earning a muzzle of a gun tucked tightly under his chin for his efforts.

“Anymore smart comments from you and they’ll be the last thing you ever say,” Hubért snarled.

“This is how I naturally speak, it is not my fault if my voice has a cadence of intelligence,” Aramis retorted loftily.

That appeared to be the wrong thing to say as Hubért forwent his gun, in favour of his own hands, striking out to grip Aramis’ injured shoulder, like a viper in the grass, his thumb sinking into the hole that the bullet had made in the flesh.

A violent stab of fresh broiling torture encased Aramis’ body as though he were being shot all over again, slowly, mercilessly.

Though pride and stubbornness bid him to hold back his pain, he knew that he needed to keep his cards very closed to his chest in this situation. The less they knew about how capable Aramis was, the better. Surprise was key. And so he realised a cry of agony and pain, cursing and whimpering as Hubért gripped his bloodied shoulder. 

“ _Leave him alone!_ ” Aramis heard the shriek of a woman across the room, though it was lost into the background of the agony at hand.

Something about the voice must had reached his tormentor as the pressure on his wound lessened, allowing Aramis to collapse to his right side, gingerly cupping his left arm as he fell upon the floor. 

In the wake of blinding pain, Aramis did not hear the conversation taking place upon the phone. He caught the odd word, enough to realise it was the officer’s outside on the other end, but there was not much more.

It was there, in the abyss of agony, that Aramis realised this was his opportunity, the call was the only link to the outside. He needed to get information outside for the others to work with, perhaps they could fill in the gaps he was unable to trapped in the bank. 

“Please, may I talk to my fiancé?” he asked, forcing himself to sit up through it brought a wave of nausea and black spots upon his vision. 

“Already hung up,” Hubért smirked menacingly, sounding far too amused with himself.

“My fiancé's just outside, can I call them back?” Aramis pushed, determined.

“ _Quiet_ ,” Marcus growled, raising his hand to strike the injured man but decided against it.

“You shot me, I’m probably going to die on this horrible itchy carpet, the least you could do is allow me to talk to my fiancé one last time before I bleed out.” Aramis argued, not going to be shouted down by a man who had only landed a shot by pure dumb luck.

“Marcus,” Jean looked up towards his elder brother desperately, before his eyes peered back at Aramis wearily. 

“Shut it,” Hubért spat as his young sibling, who recoiled instantly at the raised tones.

“What do you think?” Marcus turned to Hubért as the three looked down at their injured hostage. “I mean he’s a cop, he could be lying.”

“I’ve also got a family,” Aramis told them, hoping to play upon their sympathies. Jean was already being to crack under the pressure and there was a hope that the boy’s elder brothers would fall along with him. “Leniency will be beneficial in a courtroom,” he quipped, before adding, “ _if_ you get caught."  

Hubért bit his lip anxious as his eyes trailed over to the bloodied wound upon Aramis’ left shoulder and the blood upon his own fingers. “You get two minutes, you say goodbye then hang up.” 

“That’s all I ask,” Aramis nodded.

 

†††

_4:20pm_

 “Alright, I’m making the call,” Rochefort announced, huddling around the back of the communications van, “everyone stand by.”

A few metres back from the van, Porthos and Athos stood stoic, watching the mess of an operation with great distain. The mention of a call had caused Porthos to tense slightly, apprehensive of the information they would receive.

“He’ll find a way to tell us he’s okay,” Athos uttered softly, gently as he sent a glance towards the taller man. 

“Yeah, I know,” Porthos sniffed, eying the conversation Rochefort was having with the supposed leader of the men inside.

Rochefort ended the call with a violent stab of his finger against the buttons, tossing the mobile carelessly into the van, though this did not seem to be out of anger but ill-veiled amusement.

“What are their demands?” Tréville stepped forward, alerting Athos’ attention as he watched the scene with curiosity.

“They’re fairly low stakes for the amount of people they got in there,” Rochefort had the arrogance to smirk a little with condescension. "Could've asked for three times that and threatened to start knocking off hostages."

“One of my own is in there, Captain,” Tréville levelled his gaze, “I trust you will remember that.”

This seemed to sober Rochefort’s smugness slightly, as he nodded sharply, “Five hundred thousand, in hundreds, divided into three separate brief cases to be delivered at the entrance of the bank within the hour.”

“I wonder if they realise five hundred thousand doesn’t divide equally by threes?” d’Artagnan gave a bitter smirk as he looked over toward Athos, instantly alerting the elder of the young officer’s presence beside him. D’Artagnan always seemed to have a way of silently sneaking up on them without realising. 

“I doubt they’ll even see the money,” Athos noted absently, eyes flickering around at the squads of men in riot gear stationed in groups around the street. “Rochefort’s already planning to go in with gas, with snipers taking out the assailants.” 

“But that’s good, isn’t it? Aramis will be out then,” d’Artagnan frowned, watching Athos' expression carefully. 

“We should not get to play judge, jury and executor, d’Artagnan,” Athos muttered quietly, “that is not our duty.”

“Sometimes we do though,” d’Artagnan countered.

“Those are not days to be celebrated,” Athos said darkly avoiding the younger man’s gaze and he fought back the memories that arose within his mind’s eye.

Suddenly the mobile in Rochefort’s hand began to ring, alerting the blonde instantly. Athos’ gaze picked up at the sound, snapping over the van where Rochefort stood, accepting the call, muttering into the receiver with a pinched expression.

It was far to early for a settlement call, Athos concluded, they had only just issued their demands. Which meant this was something different. 

“He’s asking for Aramis’ fiancé…?” Rochefort asked slowly with a frown, peering around at the three in confusion.

“Right here,” Porthos put up his hand as he stepped forward, taking the phone from a rather surprised looking Rochefort, before he could argue.

“What?” d’Artagnan cocked his head to one side, looking to Athos for answers. "Really?" 

“After all these years I’ve learnt just to go with it,” Athos muttered with a casual shrug, complete unfazed by Porthos’ announcement.

 

†††

  _4:23pm_

“You tell them anything an’ your brains’ll be over the floor before you can take another breath.” Hubért growled, securing the muzzle of his gun snugly at the back of Aramis’ head, tucked into the base of his skull. 

“Duly noted,” Aramis supplied evenly, licking his bottom lip as he began to feel his mouth dry. The added heat of the room to the fire in his shoulder had not done his body any favours, it was becoming hard to swallow and keep his focus upon the task at hand. A large portion of his mind was screaming for him to find a quiet, dark corner and give into the bliss of unconsciousness, though he would never allow this to happen, not when there were so many civilians still huddled up in this God-forsaken bank.

“Jean, call them back, put it on speaker,” Hubért ordered gruffly as the younger boy hit redial, dispersing a dial tone throughout the tense room.

‘ _I’m glad you called back, thank you.’_

“Oh fantastic…” Aramis sighed sarcastically as his eyes rolled to the ceiling as he recognised the familiar dulcet tones of the arrogant taskforce leader.

“We have a René – “

“ _Aramis_ ,” he corrected with a groan from both pain and annoyance, slightly cursing his mother for shackling him with the name.

“Aramis,” Hubért accepted the correction, though he nudged the mouth of the gun deeper into Aramis’ nape in warning. “Aramis would like to speak to his fiancé.”

 _‘How about I talk to Aramis?’_ Rochefort’s voice was stern and assertive, presenting a level of professionalism that almost made Aramis laugh.

Hubért looked to Aramis, but the injured man promptly shook his head in the negative. There was no chance he was settling for having a chat with Rochefort when his brothers were more than likely standing close by.

“Put his fiancé on,” Hubért demanded. 

There was a slight pause and for a heart-stopping second, Aramis wondered whether Rochefort would ruin the entire plan by announcing the fictitious nature of Aramis' fiancé, but then his anxiety dissolved as he heard the man say:

 _‘Very well…’_  

There was a muffled sound as Rochefort, more than likely, placed his hand over the receiver, calling out for his supposed fiancé. God what he would give to see the look on Rochefort’s face.

Aramis gave a small smile as he heard the phone being forcefully taken from Rochefort and a familiar voice fill the room. 

 _“Aramis?”_ Porthos’ voice came through the speaker, instantly centring Aramis against the chaotic tsunami that raged around him. It would have been easy to fall into a comfortable banter with the man, but Aramis knew that time was of the essence in these situations.

“Hello honey bear.”

 _“Hey babe, are you alright, are you hurt?”_ Porthos’ voice mimicked that of a worried boyfriend, though Aramis could see hear the very real tension behind the façade.    

“I thought you said your fiancé?” Marcus growled, covering the receiver with his hand as he glared furiously at Aramis. 

“He is my fiancé,” Aramis retorted smoothly, “problem?”

“ _No_ ,” the man shifted awkwardly, suddenly avoiding Aramis’ gaze, “carry on.”

 _Great_ , Aramis thought sarcastically, not only did he have to deal with the amateurish antics of the men holding him hostage; one of them seemed to be dealing with a crisis of political correctness. Though Aramis was on some level rather relieved this was the only response to such a revelation. Were the gunmen prejudiced men, this reveal could have put him in greater danger. 

“Clock’s ticking,” Hubért snarled, giving Aramis an encouraging nudge of the gun at his neck, clearly not wishing to sit and listen to his elder brother’s internal struggle.

 _‘Aramis?’_ Porthos’ voice spoke out over the speaker once more, though his worry sounded far too truthful for Aramis’ liking. The silence must have startled him a little. 

“Everything’s alright, just tell them to do everything they ask,” Aramis told Porthos through the phone.

 _‘Of course.’_ Porthos replied in an accepting tone, though Aramis knew the other man would do the exact opposite of his supposed promise. 

“Have you picked up our little princess from school?” Aramis spoke evenly in order to keep his words clear, but also so that his pained gasps were not heard through the phone.

 _‘Just dropped her off for a play date with Tréville’s lad.’_ Porthos replied without missing a beat.

Aramis quickly gave a small glance at Hubért, wondering if the man was getting suspicious of their conversation. However he took comfort in the fact that the Captain was outside with a team primed and ready.

“You know I don’t like her with that brat, I’ve told you a half dozen times,” Aramis tried to make his voice play the part of an overprotective parent.

“Wrap up the love fest,” Hubért spat, nudging Aramis’ head toward the phone with the gun at his neck. It was clear the gunman was becoming nervous about his fleeting authority in the situation, desperate to throw his power around in hopes that the others would fall into line. Between the three, Hubért was the one to watch. It was obvious that he was the ringleader in their operation. Though statistics would point to the eldest – that being Marcus – as the go to instigator, one only needed a few moments in the brothers’ company to see the truth. Hubért was the brains, Marcus was simply muscle and Jean, Jean was just caught up in the train wreck, blindly following his siblings as a lost solider follows his Captain into a hopeless battle. 

“I have to go now, but don’t worry, I’ll be home before you know it,” Aramis told Porthos, hoping that at least some of what he had said had been understood. A worried Porthos was an irrational Porthos and that was never a good combination.

 _‘We need to buy milk on the way home,_ ’ Aramis blinked he heard Porthos’ tone. Porthos was getting anxious, it was clear. The slight pause before he spoke, the way he tightened his words. It was completely unnoticeable to anyone unfamiliar with the man on the other end of the line, though Aramis had spent enough time over the years to know when Porthos was not happy.

“Yes,” Aramis smiled tightly, keeping up the act through secretly wishing he could just tell Porthos he was alright and not to worry, rather than deal with the covert subtext, “I need to get bread also, I’ll buy you a croissant,” he added, hoping Porthos recognised the phrase.

Aramis felt his heart beat a little faster as he listening to the silence of Porthos processing the revelation he’d just told him.

 _‘Love you,’_ Porthos muttered quietly through the phone, sounding a little hesitant, though Aramis new this was simply due to the character he was playing.

“I’ll see you when I get home,” Aramis reassured him, looking intently at the phone as though it were the man himself. 

“Alright that’s it,” Hubért snarled, violently stabbing the button with his finger, ending the call before Porthos could respond. “Get him back with the others,” he ordered.

“You have a daughter?” Jean asked softly as the others walked off, leaving the young boy and Aramis alone.

Aramis nodded solemnly, not wanting to seem too eager to give away information. Creating empathy with the assailant was a good way to gain their trust. Jean was the key. If Aramis could convince Jean to surrender peacefully, there could be a way to get anyone out of here, without the need for an assault team or smoke bombs.

 

†††

_4:24pm_

There was a moment of silence held as the surrounding officers stood baffled by the conversation that had just taken place. No one dared speak as Porthos stood stoic, glaring the cream building across the road, the phone gripped tight in his hands, white knuckles revealing his inner turmoil.

“Seven hostages, three gun men each armed with semi-automatics, the younger one’s scared, he’s gonna crack soon. Aramis had been shot in the left shoulder, just below his collarbone, possibly broken, no one else is injured.” Porthos reeled off the information in a curt tone, handing the mobile back to Rochefort, thoroughly enjoying the look of shock and ill-masked awe that the man had on his face, though it was clear the conversation with Aramis had done nothing for his worries.

“How…?” Rochefort gaped in surprise as he took the phone numbly.

“They have a code for when one of them gets taken hostage…” d’Artagnan uttered quickly, sounding as though he were about to laugh, eyes wide in awe of the meticulous planning and foresight the two men had. “Seriously?” he turned to Athos for answers.

“Aramis insisted on it,” Athos brushed the question off casually, lowering his voice slightly around the other officers milling around them, “after the last time Porthos was taken…” 

“How often does this type of this happen?” d’Artagnan asked, though from his phrasing he clearly didn’t want an answer, looking from Porthos to the bank in disbelief.

“More then is entirely healthy for my nerves,” Athos returned smoothly, his expression revealing nothing of the chaos within.

“You seem calm,” the younger man watched Athos curiously, studying the man’s stony features with careful consideration. 

To this the elder man raised a scornful brow that told the younger _‘is that so…?’_.  “Porthos is already fired up, any worry I show would not helping him or Aramis,” he explained tersely, keeping his eyes firmly fixed upon the bank.

 

†††

 _4:30pm_  

Aramis placed himself away from the other hostages, in hopes that Jean would be more inclined to talk without the fear of hostility they offered. With Hubért and Marcus in the back room trying to figure out the safe and an exit strategy, Jean had been left in the main area with the hostages to supervise. This offered Aramis the perfect opportunity. 

“Hey, uh,” Aramis winced, playing the sickly victim as he raised up his right hand making it tremble for sympathy, though the movement sent sharp jolts of pain throughout his entire body. “Can I get a hand here?”

Jean frowned but said nothing, avoiding Aramis’ gaze in a guilt-ridden fashion as the young boy bit his lip.

“I need to tie this tighter,” Aramis told him, “from this angle I can’t get the right grip.”

"Okay," Jean gave an acute nod as he made his way over to Aramis, kneeling down as he took the bloodied jacket apprehensively, looping the sleeves so that he might tie them together.  

“Look I’ve seen this situations before,” Aramis whispered to the young man slowly, his breath hitching slightly as he tried to breathe through the pain in his shoulder. “It's going to get a lot worse for all of us is you keep going.” 

“This wasn’t meant to go like this,” the boy whispered, “no one was meant to get hurt…”

“These type of things never go the way you think they will,” Aramis whispered back with a regretful tone, his voice getting a little quieter as he rested his head back against the wall, eyes closing as he breathed into the throbbing wound. The darkness was preferable.

“Are you dying?” Jean’s timid voice alerted Aramis, reminded him not fall asleep. Opening his eyes, he gave Jean a small amused smirk.

“Hopefully not, I’ll hear the end of it,” Aramis chuckled a little, groaning through clenched teeth as Jean tightened the thin knitted jacket taut upon Aramis’ shoulder. 

“Oh God, I’m sorry.”

“I’m alright,” Aramis soothed gently, calming the near hyperventilating boy. It was then that Aramis saw the youthfulness in the boy’s eyes that he had not seen earlier, the fear of a child, the anxiety of a little boy trapped in a nightmare.

“How old are you?” Aramis wondered, studying the boy curiously.

“Sixteen.”

“Christ, you’re just a kid...” Aramis swore as he closed his eyes, trying to quell the anger that rose up within him. “The hell are you doing involved in a hostage situation?” 

“I don’t know,” Jean muttered with a regretful tone, combing trembling fingers anxiously through dishevelled hair. “I don’t know…” 

“Jean, listen to me,” Aramis told him, “I can get you out of here, I can get everyone out, I just need you to give me your gun.” 

Jean looked towards Aramis apprehensively before glancing toward the room where his brother's stood. “They’re my brothers, I’m not going to betray them.”

“They’re in over their heads, you all are,” Aramis kept his voice lower, his eyes darting over to where Marcus and Hubért were discussing. “You’ll get a lighter sentence as you’re a minor, but a judge won’t look to kindly upon men who shot an off-duty officer.”

“They can’t go to prison,” Jean blanched, biting his lip as he looked over at his brothers desperately. “They’re all I have…”

“I cannot promise that they won’t serve some time, but if this goes any further it will be a hell of a lot longer than if you end it now, surrender peacefully and willingly.”

“They’ll never agree to it,” Jean argued, sounding a little anxious, though he was still leaning heavily to Aramis' side which was a bonus. 

“Leave that to me,” Aramis smirked a little as he gripped the boy's shoulder, "could you help me up?" 

Complying instinctively, Jean eased the other man into standing. 

"Now, I'm going to need your gun,” Aramis told him, “and I'll need you to promise to follow my lead.”

"I will," Jean nodded desperately, placing the weapon in Aramis' hands quickly. As Jean looked over towards his brothers, Aramis quickly and expertly removed the clip, unloading the rounds before replacing it. One less gun was just what this situation needed.

“Terribly sorry about this,” Aramis apologised politely as he held the gun to the boy's head, slinging his injured arm gingerly around the boy's neck. 

"What are you doing?" Jean panicked, his breathing increasing rapidly. 

"S'all right," Aramis whispered in his ear, "just remain calm, you're okay, I made you a promise."

"Okay," Jean swallowed deeply, nodding his head a little.

"Call your brothers," Aramis instructed calmly, careful to make sure the cold tip of the gun's barrel did not touch the boy's temple, but hover over it, the gun seemed to be giving Jean a great deal of anxiety which Aramis was feeling a little guilty over. Though it was not loaded, Jean did not know this and his fear was genuine. 

"Hubért, Marcus," Jean called out, his voice sounding scratchy and a little hoarse. 

The response was immediate as the two men could be heard moving about in the other room before opening the door. 

"What is it - for  _fucks_ sake," Hubért swore violently as he saw the situation he'd walked into, freezing in the doorway with Marcus right behind.  _  
_

"What the hell did you do?" Marcus growled, but Aramis could hear the worry in his voice.

“Alright, gentlemen, I shall now ask you to place your weapons upon the floor and place your hands above your head," Aramis told them with a cordial tone, nodding to the weapons in their hands. 

"You're a cop, you're not going to shoot him," Hubért scoffed, though there was little certainty in his words. 

"You were clearly not listening when I told you I wasn't a cop," Aramis smirked a little, allowing his bluff to be executed with precision and confidence. 

"Fuck," Marcus spat, looking around the room desperately for some other option. 

However in that moment, a glint of movement in the small mirror over the register caught Aramis' eye. From his position he could clearly see the image of a shadow upon the balcony. Though it could have been a curious neighbour or a large dog, Aramis' mind instantly came to  _snipers._ Rochefort had brought in the big guns, literally, placing snipers in the opposite building in order to take down the three gunmen. However one of those gunmen was now Aramis. 

"In your own time, gentlemen," Aramis offered, cocking the gun, "but quite quickly." 

Hubért growled in frustration though he put his weapon down, prompting the elder man to put his down also. 

“Madame if you would be so kind?” Aramis asked the young mother who had surrendered her jacket to him earlier. She nodded nervously through she reached over for Marcus' weapon regardless, moving back toward the elderly lady she had sat next to with the entire time. 

“ _No_ ,” Aramis warned the portly businessman as the man tried to reach for Hubért’s weapon. “Not you. I trust you less than these lot with a firearm.”

The large gentleman wrinkled his nose in annoyance though he said nothing further, sitting back down upon the floor, allowing for the young bank teller to take the gun as toss it along the carpet to the other side of the room. 

It was then that Aramis brought his attentions towards the boy in his arms, "Jean," he said in a low whisper, "there are snipers in the building across the street, when I tell you to, run to your brothers and lead them out the back, okay?"

Jean nodded once more though he gave no verbal response.  

"Ready? Now  _run._ " Aramis ordered, realising the boy as Jean ran towards to brothers, yelling for them to get to the exit.

 

†††

 

 _4:35pm_  

 _‘Sir we have eyes on the targets,’_ a sharp voice game through the radio, alerting all those in hearing distance. Athos turned to Porthos as they waited in silence. The assailants had proved aggressive and so the threat had been deemed worthy of the need for force. However it did not leave an easy feeling in their stomachs as they listened to a man line up his shot.  

“If it’s clear, take the shot," Rochefort order curtly, leaving no time for questioning. 

_‘There appears to be another assailant, Sir.’_

“What?” 

_‘One of the hostages, Sir, he’s holding one of the assailants at gunpoint, permission to take the shot?’_

"Aramis," Porthos chuckled, shaking his head with a smile, "that idiot." 

"Isn't he injured," d'Artagnan rolled his eyes a little at the thought. 

"Not the worst thing he's done," Athos' pondered. 

 However, Rochefort didn’t hesitant for a moment, “Take the shot.”

 "What?" Porthos froze, head snapping over to the blonde Captain. Athos' heart beating furiously in his chest as he attempted to reach Rochefort, though someone beat him to it. 

“ _Don’t_ shoot,” Tréville growled into the microphone, ripping it from Rochefort’s hands, “It’s Aramis.” 

“We don’t have accurate visuals inside, how can you –?“ Rochefort argued. 

“It’s Aramis,” the Captain stressed, his gaze intent and unwavering as he levelled his stare at the taller man. “I know my men, Rochefort, you take that shot and you’ll be shooting one of my men.” 

‘ _Sir targets are unarmed and heading toward the back doors.’_

"Athos?" Tréville raised a glance to the man across from him.  

“We’re on it,” Athos nodded to Tréville, tapping d’Artagnan upon the shoulder in order to get the younger man to follow him.

“Go get him,” d’Artagnan smiled at Porthos with a firm nod before running off after Athos.

Quickly securing two pieces from his glove box - ignoring d'Artagnan's comment of "you have guns in your glovebox?" - he handed one to the younger man before running towards the side alley to cut off the assailants. 

Once behind they bank it took less than a moment before the three fleeing men burst through the doors. D'Artagnan flanked left as instructed by a sharp nod from Athos, leaving it opened to Athos to take the right side.  

"You are surrounded, lie down on the ground and place your hands above your heads," Athos announced as he levelled his weapon on the three men before them. 

This was met with panicked glances from the men, each looking for an avenue of escape. The eldest looking man locked eyes with Athos,kneeling down compliantly as Athos began to read them their rights, stowing his weapon, he pulled out his handcuffs to take the assailant into custody. However the moment his gun was stowed, the larger man acted, pushing Athos back and the other fierce assailant dove towards d'Artagnan. 

A gasp gripping Athos' heart tightly as he saw the man knocking the gun from the d'Artagnan's hands, sending it flying out of reach. 

"D'Artagnan!" Athos shouted to warn him but D'Artagnan was quick to act, looping his foot around the taller man's knee to unbalance him, before grabbing his elbow, twisting the larger man to the ground in an instant, locking his handcuffs upon the assailant's wrists. 

A moment's pause to make sure d'Artagnan was alright, prove to be a lapse in judgement as Athos turned back to be met with a sharp right hook to the jaw. Growling as he shook it off, Athos quickly grabbed the man's fist as he attempted to throw another, bending the arm around to the man's back and he shoved him roughly against the wall, fiddling with handcuffs for a moment before securing them tight. Taking a breath for a moment, Athos pulled the man off the wall, realising, from the blood, that the man must have knocked it during the fight. 

"All good?" d'Artagnan looked over a him as picked up his weapon, training in upon the cuffed assailants, a breathy smile upon his face.

Athos nodded though he then realised that there had been a third man. His snapped over the younger man hovering a little to closely to d'Artagnan's discarded gun for his liking. “I really wouldn’t if I were you,” Athos warned, pulling out his gun. The young frightened assailant stood frozen in the line of the officer’s weapon like a deer stuck in the path of a truck’s headlights.

"Are you Aramis' friends?" the younger man asked, putting his hands up in surrender and kneeling without issue. 

"Yes," Athos answered with a guarded tone, summing up the boy carefully as he shared a look with d'Artagnan, before leaning over and gently cuffing the younger man, sensing that he could not give them any problems.  

“He screamed like a little bitch, your friend did,” the eldest man spat, blood dripping from his broken nose, dripping down upon his eagle neck tattoo. 

D’Artagnan snarled in fury as he pulled back his fist, preparing to break the man’s nose further, though he was surprised as his arm was stooped mid-swing.

“Not an option d’Artagnan,” Athos warned quietly as he held the younger man’s forearm. 

“He shot Aramis,” d’Artagnan growled like a furious animal, wild eyes glaring down the man at his feet. 

“I will not see your future prospects tarnished in the name of petty revenge,” Athos told him earnestly, watching him carefully as his anger was soothed, letting d’Artagnan’s arm drop down to his side, confident that the younger man had calmed down sufficiently.  

"Probably dead it ther - " the man laugh was quickly silenced by a sharp subtle blow to the ribs. 

“What was that then?” d’Artagnan snorted as he let the younger and elder man out of the alleyway over towards where a team of Rochefort's men were rushing toward them. 

“He tripped,” Athos supplied coolly, before handing the handcuffed man over to Rochefort's uniformed squad. "And don't toss your weapon away next time, if one of them had picked it up, one shot and your dead."

"Where was I suppose to put it?" d'Artagnan sighed, "I didn't exactly have time to run home and get my uniform, and not all of us go round Paris with wearing a gun holster on their days off." 

"Perhaps you should," Athos quipped lightly.

"Maybe I should keep guns everywhere too," d'Artagnan shot back with a raised brow of accusation.

“Live by my words, d’Artagnan, not by my actions," Athos told him quietly with a devilish smirk as they walked back around to the front of the bank where Rochefort's men were taking care of the hostages. Though he had said the words in jest, Athos firmly wished the younger man to take them to heart, he was already far too much like Athos to be mimicking his actions. 

†††

 _4:45pm_  

As the response team ushered some of the hostages out of the bank, Aramis made his way over to the cashier’s desk, where a woman from the bank stood behind it, making a determined effort to put the room back into some sort of order. This woman had not been one of the hostages, but seemed to be the illustrious bank manager who had serendipitously avoided the entire situation, slipping in after with the response team to assess the damage of her branch.

“ _Now_ ,” Aramis sighed, tightly clenching the rolled cardigan upon his shoulder to slow the stream of seeping blood. Leaning heavily upon the polished bench before a very shaken teller, he gingerly removed a small folded bit of paper from his pocket. “I wish to deposit this cheque,” he told her, sliding the tattered piece of paper across under the glass, smearing bloodied fingerprints upon it. “Apologies for the state of it, it was in my pocket, I believe I may have gotten some blood on it.”

The middle-aged woman before him blanched at this bloodied and dishevelled appearance, her eyes wide and her mouth agape, completely at a loss on how to approach the situation. 

“Also, I’ve been shot so I won’t be able to sign anything…” Aramis rambled aimless at the woman before him, picking up a chained pen with his right hand, fiddling with it absently. “I’m a lefty, though I could give it a decent try, I’ve always wanted to be ambi… _ambiguous_? No… ambi- _something_ , I’ll get it later…” he trailed off, feeling a little light headed as he leaned against the desk for further support. Black spots had begun to dance before his eyes and there was a slight ringing in his ears, but he would deal with that later.

“Aramis?” he heard Porthos call out across the room, he did not need to turn to know that the other man was there.

“Over here,” Aramis dropped the pen as he held his right hand up, though he kept his attention upon the poor bank teller. “I’ll be done in a minute,” he called back to Porthos.

“I’m sorry, Sir, the bank is closed at the moment,” the woman spoke hesitantly with a slightly disturbed expression as she watched blood seep through Aramis’ makeshift bandage and stain his fingers an ominous deep red.

“Fair enough, can I leave this here?” he asked, pushing the bloodied, ripped cheque towards to woman with two fingers, the paper sticking to the digits with the congealing blood. _Useless thing_ , Aramis thought absently as he tried to flick the cheque off his hand, though this was made difficult by the fact that he only had one hand assist his task. “I’d hate this to be a wasted journey.” 

“Sir, I think you should go to the hospital,” the woman told his carefully, watching his movements with bated breath.

“What a marvellous idea,” Aramis grinned brightly, despite his paling complexion. “I’ll get right on that…”

“Aramis,” Porthos breathed out a sigh of relief as he stood before him.

“Got bored waiting in the car then?” Aramis mused thoughtfully, still smiling despite the radiating pain throbbing throughout the left side of his body.

“Well it seemed all the excitement was in here,” Porthos told him with a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes, his tone quieting as he uttered, “you okay?”

“Shot passed through, it was clean, not too much damage. I got lucky, all things considered.” 

“Ara – “

“Oh look, I was wrong,” Aramis smiled as his gaze fell upon a small bowl of plastic wrapped lollypops.  “What do you want? Lime, orange or uh, _red_?”

"I don't care about lollypops, just - "  

However as he reached over to grab the bowl a blinding shard of pain spiked up his arm, collapsing in on himself as he leaned over the desk to stop him from falling over. 

“ _Whoa_ ,” Porthos stepped forward to hold up the other man as his knees gave way, “Medical’s outside, let’s get you over there.”

“Jean and his brothers?” Aramis breathed deeply, deliberately, as he rested his head against Porthos’ shoulder. 

“Cuffed and on their way to headquarters.” 

“Oh,” Aramis sighed, "But Jean wasn't to blame, he helped me end it." 

“All three of them tried to rob a bank in broad daylight and took hostages, Aramis, they’re all gonna serve time,” 

“Jean’s only sixteen,” Aramis argued quietly, closing his eyes a little as he welcomed the warmth of Porthos' shoulder. It was not like the heat of the stifling room, but comforting, welcoming. 

“He’ll still have some time in the system, armed robbery is not driving under the influence or light possession,” Porthos told him, the vibrations of his voice travelling down into his shoulder, gently lulling Aramis into a - 

“You awake?”

“ _Please_ , you insult me,” Aramis scoffed, jerking his head up sharply, though it sounded less than convincing. “Shoulder wound.”

“A bullet’s a bullet, Aramis,” Porthos 

"Mhmm," Aramis retaliated ineloquently, "hang on, where are my boots?" he frowned, pausing in his stride, suddenly very annoyed by his lack of footwear. 

"I'll get your boots, don't worry," Porthos snorted, "Now, come on, if you won't move, I'm going to carry you out of here like a blushing bride,"

"You even try and I'll shoot you," Aramis murmured back, though there was little of his usual humour in his voice. This worried Porthos, realising there was something other than his injury that was causing this melancholy. Though he quickly picked up the clues. 

“You know, Juvenile correction isn’t a life sentence, I’ve heard some kids completely turn their lives around in there, become respectable members of society,” Porthos gave him a sly knowing smirk as he helped the injured man toward the bank's heavy doors. 

“I wouldn’t say respectable,” Aramis smiled at the man beside him, stopping abruptly as they almost ran into Athos and d'Artagnan. 

Athos took a single look at the duo and called the best course of action.

“I need an ambulance ready to go,” he spoke curtly into the radio, alerting all personnel on the outside to be at the ready.   

"Where did you get that?" Porthos frowned, nodding towards the black radio in Athos' hands. 

"It's Rochefort's," Athos offered feigning a look of innocence, though the others could see the amusement in his eyes. 

"Lovely as this is, can I get some morphine now?" Aramis gritted out through his teeth, his breathing had become a little heavier over the past few moments. 

"I thought it was only a shoulder wound," Porthos teased a little, though they made their way towards the ambulance nonetheless, leaving Athos and d'Artagnan in the door way of the bank. 

“He alright?” d’Artagnan looked up at Athos as he sent a worried glance at Aramis leaning heavily against Porthos’ shoulder, looking pale and moments from collapsing.

“He’s been shot, lost quite a lot of blood,” Athos noted with a tight expression, worried eyes trailing over the injured man. “He’ll be alright once he get’s it cleaned out,” he added, giving the younger man a content look. 

†††

 _Friday 2:45 am_  

Athos sat stoic in the brightly lit private room of the hospital. Aramis had been through surgery without any complications and now lay in bed, his shoulder swaddled in pristine white cotton bandages, looking completely exhausted as he slept soundly. 

The night was waning into the early hours but neither Athos nor d’Artagnan took this as a sign to get any rest. D’Artagnan had been silent as the grave since they had arrived, headphones in his ears, jotting notes upon the back of an old notepad. Though usually this behaviour would have peaked his interest, Athos was glad for the reprieve of chatter. It had been a long day for all. 

Porthos hadn’t returned since Aramis had driven away in the ambulance, though Athos was not worried. And while he avoided answering d’Artagnan’s questions with a simply, “He needs to pick up a few things”, Athos knew Porthos would have the fortuitous timing to arrive before Aramis awoke. 

True enough, a few hours after Aramis was rolled into the room – hopped on all the very best of drugs modern medicine had to offer, sleeping blissfully – Porthos appeared with his arms full of a plethora of differently sized and shaped bags.

“What’s all that?” d’Artagnan sat up immediately from his seat at the back of the room.

“Aramis’ hospital list,” Porthos told him, “you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find a place that does fresh mango smoothies at two am," he said, placing the large drink upon the side table. 

“I’m more surprised you actually managed to get several bags of purely strawberry Carambars,” Athos raised his brow at the pile of candies that Porthos had just dumped upon the end of Aramis’ bed, “do they even sell these separately?”

“I know a guy,” Porthos offered.

“Hospital list?” d’Artagnan stood up and made his way over to the pile of assorted treats and treasures with a curious expression.

“We’ve all got one,” Porthos shrugged, “a list of things we want the others to sneak in when we’re in hospital, you really should write one, they come in handy.”

“How ‘bout I just don’t get shot,” d’Artagnan quipped back with a sardonic expression.

“Well that’s no fun,” Porthos laughed, slapping the younger’s hand as d’Artagnan attempted to reach over and take the bag of paper-wrapped candies. “ _Lay off_ ,” the larger man defended the pile of requested items protectively, leading d’Artagnan to return back to his seat across the room, picking up his pen and paper, fiddling with this phone and headphones. 

“What are you doing over there?” Athos wondered aloud, finally realising that something had kept the younger man occupied and silent for the past few hours while they had waited for Aramis to get out of surgery. 

“I’ve listened to these tapes a hundred times and I still can’t figure out your bloody code,” d’Artagnan sighed, sounding as though he were close to admitting defeat.

“That’s why it’s a code,” Porthos sent the younger man a smug look. 

Athos watched their youngest with an expertly veiled smirk of amusement. Though there was something entertaining about the fiery Gascon lad getting so frustrated by the simple matter, it didn’t take Athos long to see what this was really about. D’Artagnan was the new recruit, not just to the department, but also to their close dynamic. His frustrations were a reflection of the lad’s feelings of an outsider. It wouldn’t hurt to throw the boy a bone this once. 

“ _Honey bear_ – three syllables, three gunmen,” Athos provided with a slightly bored tone, listing off the details with as much enthusiasm as if he were reciting a grocery list, “ _little princess_ is a reference to a gun, Aramis’ magnum, aptly named ‘Maggie’ after _Marguerite_ , first Queen of France, therefore revealing the men were armed with semi-automatics.”

“Seriously?” d’Artagnan laughed a little, turning to Porthos for confirmation, “he names his guns?”

“Aramis names everything,” Porthos noted casually, “even his c–”

“ _Nope_ ,” d’Artagnan recoiled physically before Porthos could finish his sentence, slapping his hands over his ears, emulating the behaviour of a repulsed young child. “I respect you all far too much to hear the end of that sentence.”

“ _Car_ ,” Porthos finished with a wickedly devilish smirk, which he shared with Athos. They all enjoyed riling up the youngest far too much.

D’Artagnan shot the two a reproachful look before referring to the notes he’d scribbled illegibly.  “I’m almost afraid to ask about the rest…” he frowned.  

“ _Brat,”_ Porthos offered with a raised brow.

“I’m not a –“ d’Artagnan reproached with a glower, but was quickly cut off.

“Was a reference to the youngest gunman, _Jean_ , as it turned out,” Porthos finished simply with an ill-concealed grin, making a move over to Aramis’ bedside, sitting down in the empty chair beside it, ignoring the eye roll from the younger man. “Singling the kid out as the one on edge, the one who would crack first.”

“Half dozen – ” Athos said plainly. 

“Number of hostages, I actually got that one,” d’Artagnan concluded, beginning to understand the flow of the intricate personal code. “But then you said _seven_.” 

“Aramis never counts himself,” Porthos smirked softly, looking towards the man in the bed with an unreadable expression. 

“And his injury, how did you know that?” d’Artagnan pressed quietly, seemingly sensing the stress and worry Porthos carried for the unconscious man.

“Yes, that one I missed,” Athos admitting, catching Porthos’ gaze carefully.

“ _Croissant_ ,” Porthos revealed simply, though he saw the need to explain further as he watch their confused expressions. “Any mention of milk means I’m asking if anyone’s hurt, if he said something about bread it means no one’s injured.” 

“But then he said he’d buy you a croissant…” d’Artagnan furrowed his brows slightly, looking towards Aramis.

“Which you hate,” Athos spoke up, having spent enough time with the man to know of his abhorrence of the crescent pastry. 

“Exactly, when we first started working together Aramis told me it was unpatriotic to dislike them, said any man who did deserved to get shot.”

“Harsh,” d’Artagnan scoffed with a small smile.

“Well that was before he knew me,” Porthos chuckled, “it was soon lessened to a shot in the shoulder – non lethal but a right pain.”

“But you knew he’d been shot in the left shoulder, just below the collarbone with a slight fracture…” d’Artagnan uttered, confusion riddling his expression.

“Got lucky with that one,” Porthos curled his lip into a wicked grin, “Made that up to see the look of Rochefort’s face, bloody smug bastard needed a decent kick to his ego.”

Athos smirked in agreement, casting an amused look to the larger man, which was seen and returned.

“And what about that last bit?” d’Artagnan asked, turning to Porthos for answers.

“ _See you at home_ , ‘I’m fine, don’t worry’,” Aramis croaked slightly as his eyes cracked open, alerting the occupants in the room immediately, who moved closer to his bedside. As Porthos already held the seat next to Aramis, he made no movement, though d’Artagnan quickly positioned himself on the end of the cot, careful to avoid the bedridden man’s toes. 

“How are you feeling?” Athos ventured softly, leaning back against the wall to the left of Aramis’ bed, arms folded as he watched the injured man with a studying gaze. 

“Sore,” Aramis responded honestly, breathing into the pain with a slight wince. 

“‘ _See you at home’_ means ‘ _not fine, get me out’_ ,” Porthos creased his brow in thought, directing a hardened look towards the exhausted man in the bed. 

“No it doesn’t,” Aramis shook his head sluggishly, giving the other man an odd look, “‘ _don’t wait up’_ means ‘ _not fine’_.”

“No, it only means ‘ _not fine_ ’ if you say ‘ _I love you_ ’ back,” Porthos corrected, “without that it means ‘ _bomb threat_ ’. 

“Bit of a difference…” d’Artagnan snorted with a slight chuckle.

“Why did we not write these down?” Aramis wondered aloud, looking up at Porthos with thoughtful expression. 

“Cause we were drunk at the time…” Porthos divulged with a sly smirk. 

“That’s right...” Aramis smiled in remembrance, before wincing slightly as his shoulder jarred.

“Take it easy,” Porthos soothed gently, placing a light hand upon Aramis’ right shoulder, keeping the other man still. “Nurse’ll be round in a few to give you another dose.”

“Mmhhm morphine,” Aramis closed his eyes with a satisfied smile.

“Thought of a name?” Porthos asked, nudging Aramis’ right side gently to wake the other man. Athos could see the larger man was attempting to try and keep Aramis awake so that he would not miss his medication, which Athos was rather thankful for. There was no way they were going to try and suffer through Aramis injured without the promise of the good stuff. They had learnt that lesson many years ago and held a pact ever since.

“ _Loretta_ ,” Aramis breathed the name out with a tight chuckle, “An utter pain with terrible timing.”

“Is this another code?” d’Artagnan frowned, cocking his head slightly to one side as he studied the two men carefully.

“They like to name their scars,” Athos supplied with a casual tone.

“Ugh, why?” d’Artagnan wrinkled his nose a little at the idea. 

“Helps us keep count,” Porthos shrugged as though he were discussing something completely commonplace. “So far I’m winning.”

“Christ, you lot are insane,” d’Artagnan gave each man an odd glance, “Is it too late to get Tréville to transfer me to a different department?”

“Far too late,” Aramis smiled as he leaned back slowly into the large white pillows behind him.

As Aramis smiled and joked with his brothers around him, Athos finally allowed himself to relax, sinking back into the horridly uncomfortable plastic chair, using the seat’s back to rest his head upon. Aramis was safe, they were all fine. Though the rehabilitation would be a nightmare for all surrounding parties, Athos was glad for the promise of peace, even if it was just for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it :) Let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading :) xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) Would love to know your thoughts and ideas :)


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